Equal and Opposite Reactions
by AgapeErosPhilia
Summary: Dorian Pavus, the newly minted ambassador of the Imperium, is finally returning to Skyhold. And while two years can change a lot, one thing that hasn't changed is how good Maxwell Trevelyan looks in a set of armor. They only spent one night together, which was more than enough to inflame them both. But when two shameless flirts refuse to be caught, how will they ever have a second?
1. Simulacrum

_A/N: Welcome to my story! A note up front - this story is not explicitly about or post-Trespasser (in fact it won't follow that timeline at all), but it definitely borrows a few elements of people's stories, so if you are very spoiler-averse, be warned. This story comes courtesy of the lovely reader amandackrueger, who requested that I write a Dorian romance, which was apparently the magic spell to creating it out of the ether. As always it will be mostly romance in intention, but I make no apologies for any plot that might arise! I hope you enjoy it, as I'm certainly enjoying writing it, and thank you as always for reading!_

* * *

When Dorian went back to Tevinter, there was only one question on his countrymen's tongues. No matter the occasion, be it a celebratory fete, an intimate gathering of the Magisterium, or even an impromptu revelry at a tavern, there would come a point in the evening where a face turned to him deliberately, eyes lit with that very specific curiosity that twisted Dorian's stomach. Whether a painted ingenue on the hunt for her elevation or an up-and-coming young mage with everything to prove and everyone to impress, they would raise their voice to the rafters and ask the dreaded interrogative.

"What is this supposed Herald of Andraste like? Truly?"

To demur only invited more inventive inquiry, and to answer was an impossibility. Better to ask what Fade light tasted like, or the sound of snow as it fell in slushy heaps. At least those might have some reference, some relative positioning behind them. How did one describe a thing that had no compare?

But very well. Start with the tongue - best to start with the pleasures, after all - that cutting thing, a weapon to rival any Chevalier's sword. A tongue born to play the Grand Game and dance circles around the men and women it met in peace or war. Move to the lips, soft in the day and softer at night, but always wearing a ready smile that dared the world to peer inside that complicated mind. Brush past the jaw and the carefully manicured stripes of beard that enhanced its squareness while softening its severity. Look to the often broken, dangerous nose instead, a pirate's nose, set firmly between piercing eyes the green of lush pastures.

Though, truthfully, they clashed terribly against the veridium-colored armor he insisted on wearing into the field against all reasonable advice.

Follow on to the rich, chocolate-brown hair made for tousling, with a small, unruly lock that always hung just so over the eye, despite the fact that he'd never once been caught teasing it into place. He had the tall posture of a noble and the fading-violet blink of the eyes that could only be Chantry servant. Powerful, broad shoulders, like a warrior, but the slim hips of a dancer. And a backside that was like nothing else, because sometimes a fine ass was a thing all its own.

And, most important of all, watch those massive hands that bore more marks than the anchor, rough and calloused from hours of sword work. They felt like the Maker's first promise when they slid across a man's skin.

But the last pays for all, and the Inquisitor's voice was the true strength behind the titles. That modulated, baritone of the day, so different from the husky pleas in the darkness, that won allies with its lightness and subdued enemies with its weight. A voice that turned ardent lovers aside at the dawn, an unemotional fist that crushed hopes into a dust finer than the sands of the Hissing Wastes. It was the voice that showed that for all that was seen of the Herald of Andraste, for all that was observed and admired and adored, less than nothing would ever truly be known.

Of course, that description wasn't suitable for Tevinter ears. They merely wanted reassurance that the man was good, but not too good. Competent, but never dangerous. A reformer, but wise enough to keep the reforms at a distance. And Dorian obliged them.

"The Herald is the most highly raised Marcher the world has ever seen," Dorian would say, his face and voice serious and reverent. And then the wink, the slashing smile that said everything. "And he is a very short man."

The insinuation was sufficiently pointed that the crowds walked away confident that Dorian was still a loyal son of the Imperium and that they knew all there was to know about the Inquisitor. And who could say? Perhaps they did. Dorian would certainly never be able to tell them differently.

In a way it was a relief to be back in Orlais, despite the chill and the food and the ostentatious displays that outshone him at every turn. At least at Skyhold everyone already knew exactly what Maxwell Trevelyan was like.

* * *

"Yes, yes, that's quite alright," said Dorian, shooing away the elven woman busily fussing at the falling line of his cape. His mount twitched and danced underneath him, and Dorian frowned. He'd never felt particularly comfortable mounted. Being mounted, on the other hand…

"That's enough!" he said sharply as a tug on his ceremonial armor almost pulled him from the saddle.

Shayla looked up at him with more annoyance than reverence, which was at least one happy change. "Magister Pavus was very specific about your presentation, Master Pavus. You're the ambassador now, and that must be treated with all the solemnity it's worth."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "What it's worth would barely buy a meal in a Fereldan tavern, much less anything of actual value. They'll hardly stand on ceremony for me, of that I have no doubt. I'll write my father and tell him you've been most conscientious in discharging your duties, however," he added.

She opened her mouth to protest, and he raised a warning finger and held his breath. Truthfully he was a little afraid of this elven woman, for all her awed fawning - she wore her hair in exactly the same style as one of his severest governesses, and he'd never quite forgotten her - but fortunately she hadn't cottoned on to the fact quite yet.

When she gave a small nod, he smiled. "Excellent. Now we're getting along famously. If you'll mount, the turn should be just ahead."

The elf did as he requested, though she said once again, "It's not proper, Master Pavus, me alongside you."

But that was a stipulation he refused to negotiate. Bad enough to be a Tevinter in Skyhold. How many magnitudes worse to be a Tevinter with a slave in Skyhold? Too many to count. His father had been less than interested in his son's insights, however, and thus his companion was supplied with no further discussion invited. But what the old man didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and she would be outfitted as a proper servant, at least. And Josephine would pretend to be fooled.

He was a little more worried about the rest. Particularly Sera. With luck, all of his socks would remain in their designated place.

"Follow behind me, if it will make you feel better," said Dorian. "But I think it would be only to my advantage to be paired with such a beauty on my triumphant return. The men of the Inquisition will be positively green with envy, I assure you."

Shayla only sniffed and gave him a baleful look, and he sighed inwardly. _Definitely like the governess._

"And please remember, once we're at Skyhold, it's Dorian. Not Master Pavus."

"Yes, Master Pavus."

Dorian rolled his eyes again, safely away from her gaze, and urged his horse forward. He'd thought this trip might be like coming home, in a way. Or as close as he'd ever gotten. Going back to Tevinter certainly hadn't qualified. He loved his homeland, but he didn't feel particularly part of it now that he was working to change it, wholesale. But instead of joyful anticipation at the nearness of the fortress, all he felt was a headache and the looming threat of sparkling, emerald eyes. Perhaps he didn't have a home at all.

With that depressing thought, they made the turn that brought Skyhold into view again, and he rode toward what awaited him.

* * *

"Surely you must be joking."

Josephine stood in front of him with her ever-present writing board and an expression absent of any hilarity. The half-dozen soldiers that flanked her seemed even less inclined to joke, though Dorian winked at one on the end who'd been a very agreeable watch partner on several of their more prolonged journeys. The man colored, but his parade-ground posture moved not at all. Someone had clearly threatened the men with latrine duty if they lost their formality.

And had that been all, Dorian might have accepted the vague pomp with only a small protest, but there were a round three dozen armed soldiers watching him, and being stared at by so many swords tended to make him a little tetchy. "I realize that the Imperium isn't on the short list of your favored dance partners, but did you really expect me to come back to Skyhold with blood running town my forearms? Maker forbid. It would absolutely ruin my coat."

Josephine sighed heavily. "The honor guard is what is due for someone of your stature, Ambassador Pavus. In addition, it will both preserve our stronghold while maintaining your own safety. Consider it our gift," she added.

"Exactly like an abominable sweater knitted by my half-addled great aunt, then," he said. He crossed his arms. "Come now, Josephine, it's not as though I'm a stranger."

Or, he had to admit, that he particularly minded the idea of being surrounded by a phalanx of physically fit men. In theory. In practice, he'd never done well at being hemmed in. Besides, it was the principle of the thing.

"The world watches us, Ambassador Pavus." The diplomat's eyes flicked once to the top of the battlements, and Dorian casually followed her gaze. The number of Chantry-issued hats was almost enough to block out the sun.

"I see. Circle representatives?"

"A diplomatic party from the Grand Cathedral. They depart tomorrow, and Skyhold will be much less holy for their loss."

Dorian shook his head. "Very well," he said, taking pity on the poor woman. "The big, bad Tevinter will stay quietly caged per the Divine's orders." Not that he wouldn't have a stern letter for Vivienne by the end of the day.

"I appreciate your understanding in this matter, Ambassador," said Josephine, relaxing just a touch and shifting her weight.

"My one condition is that you call me Dorian," he said smoothly. "Surely the Chant of Light can't be opposed to first names. The world would be terribly confusing without them."

Josephine hesitated. "I'm not sure -"

Dorian put on his sternest face, learned by rote from his father. "My dear Josephine, when two people have shared the almost religious experience of seeing Commander Rutherford in all of his natural glory, it is simply not possible to relinquish that intimacy. Regardless of titles."

The soldiers in front of him remained impassive, but he heard a few snorts behind him, and Josephine's eyes narrowed. _Latrine duty it is,_ he thought. _Serves them right for not preparing for battle more rigorously._

But the Antivan finally smiled. "It was a night to remember, I suppose. Perhaps we can talk the Commander into another game while you're here," she said. "Though definitely not today."

"I look forward to it," said Dorian. He looked around vaguely, and Shayla appeared with another pair of servants and all of his belongings. "Ah, here you are. Please take my things to the guest wing. Third door on the left, you'll find. I assume I have my old room," he added to Josephine.

"The closest one can get to the library without actually sleeping in it? Yes. And your servant's accommodations are also arranged. Inquisitor Trevelyan was very specific," said Josephine.

As good a time as any to ask. "And where is the Inquisitor? Off running through the woods again? Or, Maker bless him, some ghastly desert wasteland?"

Josephine chuckled. "No. He claimed that he's now mapped every square inch of Thedas and won't venture out again until they arrange some new land to explore. He's in residence at the moment," she said. She paused, then added delicately, "But you understand that he couldn't be seen rushing out to enthusiastically greet a member of the Imperium."

He wondered how much she really knew. Even moreso than Leliana, Josephine was very good at playing her cards close to her chest. Leliana couldn't help but stab someone, every once in awhile, just to keep the game exciting.

"Of course," he said instead. "It only stands to reason. We wouldn't want anyone to get the impression that we were actual friends. Think of the scandal!"

Josephine glared sweetly, and Dorian subsided. But as he trailed behind the servants with the music of clanking metal around him, he couldn't help but wonder if even that might have changed. After all, it had been two years.

* * *

Maxwell Trevelyan considered himself a man of action, of all kinds. Some actions were physical, some diplomatic, and even more were mental. And some actions were even accomplished by standing very still, at least long enough for the danger to whiz past. But hesitation wasn't the same as deliberate non-movement, and so he was very annoyed to find himself cowering in a dark and shadowed alcove in the belly of Skyhold, pretending to inventory the liquor stores.

As though it were possible to keep an accurate inventory of alcohol with the allies he'd gathered around him.

When he counted the bottles for the fifth time and came up with his fifth new count, he leaned his head against the stone wall and groaned. Math had never been his strong suit, but this was disgusting. And, on schedule, he heard that distant, teasing Tevinter voice winding through his mind. _Too many blows to the head can certainly leave a man addled. The perils of the warrior caste manifest at last._

"Shut up," said Maxwell to himself, then laughed bitterly. Two years since Dorian had even set foot in the place, until today if the schedule held, and his ghost was still an irritating tease of a man. Irritating and frustrating. It wasn't like Maxwell to be so damn hung up on someone like this. Maybe Dorian really was a blood mage.

He looked around quickly, just to make sure Mother Giselle wasn't there, picking up his thoughts. While it had never been proven that all Chantry sisters were mind-readers, it had certainly seemed that way during his training. And of course, Dorian wasn't a blood mage. He wasn't even a tease, not really. He'd never promised anything, except that he wasn't a nice man. And the mage had delivered on that promise without much effort. Months of flirtation, a night of incredible sex, and then the morning where he'd talked about the inevitability of separation with the ease of a housekeeper discussing dinner options.

Even that had probably been the nicest thing he'd done. Maxwell knew better than to keep sleeping with a man who already had a foot out the door. A foot and a half, knowing Dorian. The Inquisition was too important, and Maxwell himself too volatile, to live with that kind of arrangement. A young noblewoman, another Chantry trainee, and even a bartender who really should have known better had already learned the danger of a partial commitment when it came to the youngest Trevelyan. The fallout was never pretty.

Affairs weren't permanent, obviously. They ran their course like anything. But Maxwell believed in doing things fully or not at all, while they were being done. It was the only way it could work. Especially when he'd already been well on his way to being in love with the Tevinter idiot, mustache and all.

But somehow his mind had never really gotten the memo that it was over. He'd moved on to other flirtations, other partners, other lives, but part of him had remained stubbornly alongside that lazily arrogant man with his devilish smirk. The one who always, always had something pithy to say when a new noble swept through the hall. The one who seemed to know exactly how good he looked bent over a chessboard, brow furrowed just right to draw an opponent's eyes over the handsome lines of his face. The one who stayed up half the night to parse some dusty old tome in the library, yet still greeted the dawn with a smile as long as he'd finally translated it. Usually it meant something like, "Three wheels of cheese for the next party," but Dorian didn't care as long as it was solved. Puzzles were the only thing he couldn't resist.

Maybe Maxwell should have been a little more mysterious, then.

He kicked at the wall with his lightly-shod foot, which hurt like hell, but he felt better anyway. He grabbed two bottles from the rack and made his way to the kitchen, where he found the head server and thrust them into his hands. "Serve this tonight at my table. Please."

"Of course, Inquisitor," said the man, but his eyebrows lifted in surprise as he studied the bottles.

Maxwell gave his most charming smile and dared him to comment. Their servants were too well-trained, of course, but there would be more gossip for Skyhold's residents soon enough. Everyone knew how much their leader hated Tevinter wine, sweet-smelling and even sweeter tasting. Give him a strong ale any day, or even better a brandy. But diplomacy required a man to put the comfort of his guests over the comfort of himself.

And if Dorian looked a little more deliciously flushed and his tongue loosened just that hint more over a bottle of his favorite wine, well, that wasn't an opportunity Maxwell would ever miss.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was taken up with much more dreary business, the consequences of putting off all of the boring tasks of running a nation-spanning organization to a single day. Maxwell glared at his advisors as they passed yet another document in illegibly small handwriting over to his seat. "And this one is?"

"A writ declaring that the city-state of Kirkwall shall always be honored by the Inquisition, and that the anniversary of the Chantry explosion will be set aside as a day of memorial in perpetuity," said Josephine as she scribbled on her own page.

"You have got to be kidding me."

A year ago that might have earned him a rebuke, but they were more than used to his lack of patience by now. In this room, anyway. He considered it only fair that he could snap and snarl with his closest counsel if he had to be so polite outside of it. The Inquisition was his responsibility, and he gave all he had to its continued survival. But he had to be grumpy somewhere.

"It's a token of the Inquisition's empathy with their plight," said Leliana. "Just sign it."

He did as he was bid, though he muttered, "Varric said they already hold memorials on that day anyway."

"Ah," said Josephine with a smile, "but this will be the Inquisition's memorial. That's what they'll remember."

"If you say so," said Maxwell. "I still think Kirkwall would be better off forgetting all about the whole damn thing. No offense to you, Cullen."

Cullen's chair was tipped back on two legs as its occupant stared at the ceiling and tossed a small stone in the air. "None taken, I assure you. In fact, if I had my way, all of these ceremonies and processions and formalities would be outlawed entirely. Do any of the writs say that?"

"Commander, it's important that we be seen as healers and not simply warmongers," Josephine began, but she was drowned out by a trio of groans.

"Do _not_ give the speech again," said Cullen. "I yield."

The chair thunked to the floor and the blonde man leaned forward onto his elbows. "Please let me go and do something useful. Anything. I beg you."

Josephine slid another sheet across the table in reply. "Requisition lists from Ser Morris for your review and signature." Her lip twitched as Cullen gave her a wounded look. "And then both of you will have discharged your duties for the day."

Maxwell felt a little guilty about the broad smile spreading across his face, but Cullen's was no less pleased. "Sparring, Inquisitor?"

Dorian was here, in Skyhold. Almost certainly in the library. And Maxwell was several dozen steps of comfort away from being able to seek him out, especially after Josephine had reported he was practically unchanged, which was typical of the man. He hadn't even had the courtesy to go off and get ugly in the interim.

At least a sparring session was a much better way to be a coward than a wine inventory.

"Just try to stop me, Commander."

* * *

The yard was crowded, as it usually was on these rare fall afternoons where the air was crisp and the ground not quite soggy. Luckily the Inquisitor never had much trouble clearing space, especially when he was at his most charming. All of his noble training came to the fore as he made his way through the crowd, smiles flying in every direction and names rising to his tongue without thought. Leliana had once remarked that he was practically Orlesian in his manners, and he supposed that was supposed to be a compliment.

"Come on, finish him," cried a voice as he and Cullen finally neared the ring. Varric was sitting on a fencepost, swinging his legs as he watched two helmeted foes squaring off against one another. As they watched, the taller gained the advantage over the shorter and struck a clean killing blow that had the spectators applauding.

Maxwell didn't even need to see their faces to know who they were. Michel de Chevin had that flouncy, unmistakable Chevalier style that looked deceptively weak until it killed a man, and Cassandra's relentless attack could never be forgotten once seen. They removed their helmets, and she extended a hand to her vanquished opponent as he murmured some pleasantry that made her laugh. Cullen's eyes narrowed as he put on his armor, and Maxwell caught Varric's eye and grinned.

The dwarf laughed to himself, then called out, "Okay, settling bets on the last match, though any of you who bet against the Seeker deserved to lose all of your money. Now accepting coin on the Inquisitor versus the Commander. May the handsomest man win!"

"Well that's hardly fair," said Maxwell, buckling his lucky armor. "Even if I put a helmet on, I'd still be at a major advantage."

Cassandra snorted as she grabbed her water from the ground next to him. "The Seekers taught that only a weakling was a braggart. Those who are truly superior needn't announce the fact."

"You wouldn't know it from the number of promotional missives Josephine sends out on the Inquisition's behalf," said Maxwell. "We must be the weakest world-savers in the history of Thedas by that standard."

He grinned his most devastating grin as Cassandra frowned, and it rolled off of her back as usual. She'd once told him that she wanted a man to court her in the traditional style, and when he'd said that his idea of courtship tended less towards poetry and more towards inventive lovemaking, she'd apparently decided his flirtations were unworthy. Which didn't stop him from them in the least, even though he was vaguely relieved not to have her terrifying focus turned on him. Besides, he knew where he'd placed his money in Varric's book.

"Will you be the judge?" asked Cullen quietly, right on time.

She nodded, and Maxwell put a metal-clad arm around her. "Make sure you're impartial. I know I'm hard to resist." She shrugged away, though there was a small smile on her face, and Maxwell pushed his luck. "Kiss for the winner?"

The smile vanished, and Cullen's cheeks went suddenly pink. Cassandra didn't notice as she said, "That's oafish. Would you ask the same thing if de Chevin was your judge?" When Maxwell opened his mouth to reply, she added quickly, "Do not answer that. Take your positions, please."

She stalked away, and when Cullen moved to the center of the ring Varric whispered, "Curly is going to beat your ass into the ground now, you realize."

He considered replying that he'd always enjoyed being thoroughly dominated by a man, but that took his mind back to the library that he was steadfastly not going to think about. Instead he said lightly, "His bloodthirsty attitude will just make my victory all the more impressive."

Varric's laughter followed him as he sauntered away to face his opponent. Like always, the rest of the world faded away until it was just two swords and a body, waiting to be stabbed. The simplicity of battle filled him, and he was ready to win.


	2. Resilience

Dorian slammed his book shut, then immediately regretted it when the hold's librarian shot him a severe look. The man was new since he'd last been to the Inquisition, surprisingly young, and he was obviously very protective of his library. Which Dorian appreciated, naturally. But the librarian already hadn't appreciated the intrusion of Dorian's involuntary entourage, and now he likely thought Dorian was some sort of illiterate interloper instead of a man who knew a good hiding place when he found it.

He was considering opening up a discussion of ancient Tevinter manuscripts - the librarian had the look of a fussy scholar, and Dorian was very at home there - when a distant roar echoed through the stacks again. Dorian frowned. Did it have to be so loud? The sound of a cheering crowd had been muted when he first entered, but now it was at a fever pitch.

He sidled over to the librarian and smiled charmingly. "Forgive me," he said in a low voice, "but is it always so… enthusiastic in Skyhold? How does one accomplish any serious scholarship?"

The librarian sniffed. "The Inquisitor prefers pursuits of the body to those of the mind. As do the rabble who follow him. I've delicately mentioned the idea of soundproofing, but it seems to be a relatively low priority for the organization." His voice was a blend of accents, the usual sign of a wandering academic, and seemed at a permanent medium hush.

Dorian ignored, with effort, the memories that "pursuits of the body" conjured and smiled sympathetically. "It is trying to be one of the few discerning minds in a sea of those who consider a sword the most worthwhile part of a person."

One of the soldiers shifted, and Dorian half-turned to give her a dazzling grin. "Present company entirely excluded, my dear corporal."

The librarian offered a dry chuckle, like the sound of rustling pages. "Forgive me, but are you Altus Pavus?" he asked. When Dorian nodded, the man relaxed. "I should have known. The former librarian had quite a lot to say about you."

"All good, I hope. She was quite the dragon about her tomes. I would hate to think I left her with a poor opinion of my manners or myself."

"She said that you were the only man she'd ever known that would enjoy a sexual escapade in a library only if it weren't against the truly rare shelves," said the librarian unexpectedly, and Dorian couldn't stop a surprised laugh. Yes, that sounded familiar. The old girl had certainly had a way with words. After he'd worked his way into her good graces, of course.

"Was that an invitation?" asked Dorian, but he made sure his tones stayed well within the realm of playful detachment.

The librarian didn't seem put off, but that hint of interest Dorian had honed his skills to recognize wasn't there. "Merely a warning that I'll be placing rare volumes on all of the shelves, while you're in residence."

Dorian laughed again, and the man smiled quietly. Wonders would never cease, it seemed. The South must have changed drastically since his last dance into its borders. Or at least Trevelyan's part of it.

As though the librarian heard his thoughts, he said, "When you next see the Inquisitor, please bring up the topic of soundproofing. And tell him that I've received the books he wanted."

"Inquisitor Trevelyan was ordering books?" asked Dorian, sure that he hadn't heard correctly. "I thought you said he eschewed the more mindful pursuits."

"It's not my place to question his orders," said the librarian.

Another cheer echoed through the room, and they both turned towards the sound. Dorian turned toward the stairs, ready to see what all the fuss was about, and called behind him, "I'll deliver your messages if the opportunity presents itself. A delight to have met you."

* * *

The yard was packed with people, and even with an honor guard Dorian had difficulty maneuvering his way to the front of the assembly. He finally fetched up against the tavern wall, his heart beating in a slightly faster rhythm as he realized what had the throng absorbed. Of course. Trevelyan would always be at the center of attention.

When the crowd parted to allow him a glimpse of the two warriors circling each other, Dorian snorted. The man still sparred in that hideous green armor. And with his helmet off. He'd always claimed it did the Inquisition good to put a face to their leader, but Dorian was well-aware it mostly did the man's ego good to observe the swooning. And someone who'd been accused more than once of harboring enough confidence to stop an archdemon in its tracks, Dorian was more than qualified to judge.

Much to his annoyance, the knowledge of Maxwell's goals had no effect on Dorian's admiration. The Maker had certainly known what He was doing when He'd selected the most powerful person in Thedas. Maxwell was grinning as he circled his opponent, lit from within by joy, and with the sun on his face and the sword shining in his hand, no one could ever have looked more like a living legend. It was almost a disappointment there was no dragon around to be slain.

"Is that all you've got, Commander?" asked Maxwell, smooth voice carrying easily over the crowd. "You've been spending too much time on requisitions, I think."

Cullen, helmeted like a proper warrior, slashed forward quickly, which was his only response to being taunted in the ring. Maxwell caught it on his own blade and turned it aside with a flashy twirl. The crowd gasped, which seemed to embolden him, and he pressed forward to score a slight hit along the Commander's flank before the other man could move away. They clashed a few more times to the delight of the audience, and Dorian's imagination very helpfully removed their armor from his mental equation while he watched.

"Your tongue's half-hanging out," said someone, and he looked over to see Sera next to him wearing an accusing look.

His guards started, almost comically, at the intrusion, but then seemed to think better of acting on it when they saw who the intruder was. The elf waved at them cheerfully, and they turned back around with careful nods of acknowledgment.

"Heard you were back," said Sera. "Can practically feel it whenever a stupid noble comes through the gate. Which is all the time. This place is lousy with stupid nobles these days."

Dorian adopted a lofty expression, carefully hiding his confusion at her anger. "Come now, Sera. We both know I'm positively brimming with intellect."

"Intellect's only being stupid with bigger words," she said. "I met your slave. Seemed nice. Not too many marks where the big boots stepped all over her."

So that was it. "Shayla is a servant. Well-housed, well-educated, well-cared for. And never mistreated in my service."

"That's just words," said Sera dismissively. "Education is shite if all it teaches you is your place. She did know all about where your clothes were, though. Useful thing, _servants_."

When he only crossed his arms and leaned against the wall in his most bored pose, she gave him an appraising look. "Got spares, yeah? Don't worry, I'll find those, too. And you'll get them back. Eventually."

Damn her. "If you sew patches on my very fashionable, very tailored shirts again, at least make them color-coordinated. It's indecent to mix plaideweave and ring velvet outside of an Antivan burlesque," he said. Not that asking would help. "I do admit that I've never understood why you don't simply slash them to ribbons. Far less effort for the reward."

Sera snorted. "Yeah, like you need any more of your skin showing."

"It would be a great service for the world," he said, rolling his exposed shoulder salaciously.

She only wrinkled her nose in disgust, but a loud gasp from the crowd drew his eyes back to the ring. Dorian blinked a few times, trying to understand the scene in front of him, before he realized that Cullen had, in the space of their conversation, dumped Maxwell Trevelyan on his very fine, very firm ass.

The silence in the courtyard was deafening.

* * *

"Inquisitor?"

The distant voice over him was very worried about this Inquisitor person, and it took Maxwell a few repetitions and a soothing hand on his forehead to remember that it was him. He opened his eyes to see Cullen's enormous head blocking his vision, in duplicate, and he tried a smile. "Are you going to kiss it and make it better, Commander?"

The echo of the words drilled through his skull, and he winced. "Ow."

"It serves you right," said an annoyed voice. Cassandra. She always showed her concern through unquenchable anger. "You didn't guard at all. Even raw recruits know how to shuffle backwards."

"Well maybe I need basic training again," he said weakly, trying to sit up. The ground wavered a little underneath him as he tried, but he knew the people of Skyhold needed to see him strong. Flat on his back, unconscious, definitely didn't qualify.

A relieved sigh went up from the crowd, and he waved at them with as much casual strength as he could. Still, when they offered a round of pounding applause and the nails drove back through his aching head, he regretted his enthusiasm. No matter how necessary it was to show it.

Varric knelt next to him and propped him up without appearing to. "You realize I pay out ten to one on this? Not losing on points, but straight-up getting upended? You're going to owe me," he said, but his tones were low and worried. "What happened to you?"

Maxwell didn't dare put a hand to his head, but he stared at a wooden fence post, trying to remember. Two hundred pounds of armored ex-Templar and an abrupt introduction to the ground usually didn't help with the process. "I'm not sure. Maybe once the healing's done, it will come back."

"Did someone call for a healer?" said a cultured voice behind him, and suddenly everything did come back, in a great and embarrassing rush. Him throwing another Cassandra-related taunt at the Commander exactly as his eye caught the very hot, very present, very daringly dressed Dorian, talking and laughing with Sera by the tavern. Then came Cullen's irritated strike, and Maxwell's own inability to do anything but stare, slack-jawed, at the mage who was even more attractive than he remembered.

Sweet Maker, Dorian really was going to kill him.

Thankfully he wasn't a man prone to blushing, and he hoped his face was relatively neutral. "I'm fine," he said. "Besides, I don't know how a necromancer is going to help me, unless I hit my head harder than I thought."

"I'm sorry," said Cullen quietly.

Maxwell stopped trying to impress the world with his speedy recovery and looked hard at Cullen until the man coalesced into a single image. His face was pale and shadowed, and Maxwell knew what that meant. "Hey. You did your job. Never apologize for that. And it's good to know that the leader of my forces still has such a punishing sword arm," he said with as big of a smile as he could muster. "I did this. Me. Not you."

"I could have killed you," said Cullen. "I wasn't in control."

"You didn't, and you were," said Maxwell. He looked over the man's shoulder to Cassandra, who had hand hovering over Cullen's head like she wasn't sure whether to comfort him or smack him. "Cassandra. You and Cullen will fight next."

She dropped her hand back to the hilt of her sword and nodded, but Cullen shook his head emphatically.

"That wasn't a request, Commander. It was an order," said Maxwell. The best medicine to fight away Cullen's demons was for Cassandra to beat him, soundly, but with the kindness that she reserved only for him. Even if neither of them knew it yet. He added, "But, fair warning, I'm definitely going to kiss the winner of this one."

Varric shook his head with a chuckle and helped Maxwell stand with a minimum of swaying. That prompted another round of cheering from the crowd, and he slowly held both of his arms over his head in the Fereldan sign for victory. The Inquisitor might be beaten, but he was never lost. Matters of the heart notwithstanding, of course.

There were healers waiting for him at the gate of the ring, and he desperately wanted to bolt to them, but there was no chance he would give Dorian that kind of victory over him so soon. The only defense was a good offense, so he turned around and grinned as brilliantly as he could while he felt like he was going to vomit.

Dorian was leaning against the fence with a studied nonchalance that fooled Maxwell not a wit. Probably anyone who didn't know the man would think he was only an entertained spectator, but Maxwell could see the fine lines around his eyes that betrayed his tension. The concern was a little gratifying, and it didn't detract from the rest of him in the least.

Maxwell made sure to give Dorian a very obvious once-over before he said, "Worried about me, hm?"

"I can hardly negotiate with the Inquisition on behalf of my country if its leader is a vegetable," said Dorian. He frowned slightly. "Or dead."

"I'm immortal, haven't you heard? Consummate survivor, dragon-killer, Fade-touched, not bad with the ladies," said Maxwell. His mind felt a little fuzzed, but his smile widened when he took in all of the guards around Dorian. "Causing trouble already?"

"My admirers are simply legion."

"Funny, I never thought you were big with the hack and slash crowd," said Varric, and Maxwell started. He'd forgotten the dwarf was there.

Unfortunately the start had the effect of unbalancing him, and he caught himself on the nearest stationary object. Which happened to be an arm attached to a gorgeous mage. He tried not to enjoy himself too much.

Dorian tsked and said, "Now, this looks familiar." But when he raised his hand, sparking with magic, there were suddenly a dozen swords pointed in their direction.

Maxwell chuckled as Dorian sighed heavily. "Must we? The scary Tevinter man pinky promises that he won't hurt the Inquisitor."

"Stand down," said Maxwell, and the soldiers relaxed. Marginally.

"Thank you. As I was saying, this reminds me of that time when you found that old bottle of spirits up some ladder or other in the wilderness. 'The Maker wants me to get drunk!' you said triumphantly, and once you'd achieved your objective, you picked a fight with a snoufleur. And lost," said Dorian.

His hands ran through Maxwell's hair as he spoke and brought with them a cooling fire that cleared the cobwebs and replaced them with a fire that wasn't cool at all. Even Maxwell had to admit, the man's touch was pretty damned magical.

His memory wasn't bad either, though it wasn't exactly the whole story. Dorian knew as well as anyone that the episode had come at the end of a day of fighting Red Templars in Emprise du Lion and granting mercy to whatever villagers they couldn't save. And a warrior only had one kind of mercy. But Maxwell warmed to the familiar, comfortable teasing when he saw a faint smile on lurking on Dorian's lips. "It was a bear."

"It was most certainly not a bear. The lack of hair was one of its most defining features," said Dorian. "But we rescued you all the same, after it knocked you out cold." A brief concentration filled his eyes, replaced with pleasure as the magic finally stopped flowing. "There. No more concussions for the brave Inquisitor. You'll have to garner sympathy and fawning some other way."

It took him a few more seconds to remove his hands than were strictly necessary, seconds that had Maxwell's skin tingling. There was no more waiting smile on Dorian's face, just the hard line of his jaw, the sculpted cheekbones, the lips that were pure sin. It still seemed impossible they'd met in the middle of a Chantry. The man practically breathed fornication, and there was nothing Maxwell wanted more than to pull him into some dark corner of the fortress and advance the cause of Tevinter relations several steps beyond what anyone had envisioned.

His body was ready. More than ready, and he hoped his armor was blocking that particular fact well enough. But his mind still remembered the ease with which Dorian fought on this particular field. Not even formal greetings yet and Maxwell was practically undressing him across the fence.

He tightened his jaw. No. He was Maxwell Trevelyan, and the Inquisitor besides. He didn't have to settle for being someone's passing fancy.

"I don't know about the sympathy, but the fawning has always been in ready supply," he said. He boosted himself over the fence easily and raised his hand again to the cheering crowd before he turned the wave into a motion towards Cassandra and Cullen to begin their bout. Varric had wandered away some time ago, he suddenly realized, and he wondered how much shit, exactly, he was going to take from the dwarf later. Both for the fall and for the flirtation.

Varric was probably already keeping a book on when Dorian would end up in his quarters again.

Might as well shift the odds a little. "So, can I offer the new Imperial ambassador a tour of Skyhold?" he asked with a sweeping, courtly bow. "We've redecorated since you left."

"Yes, one can work wonders with endless expanses of grey stone," said Dorian. His eyes swept up the walls, following along the neatly repaired battlements, but they tightened as he shook his head. "But I fear the Inquisitor's duties don't include tour guide. And I still remember how to find the tavern, which was my original goal. If you feel recovered, that is."

Right. Dorian liked to drag out his flirtations. And Maxwell didn't want to be alone with him anyway. "Never been better," he said. "Enjoy your drinks."

Dorian seemed about to say something, but Maxwell turned his back and watched Cassandra and Cullen circling each other. Stupid? Probably. Immature? Definitely. But, like kicking a wall, some things just needed to be done.

Only when the groaning of metal told him that Dorian and his honor guard were leaving did Maxwell release the breath he was holding. Sera sidled up next to him, cutting off an approaching noble with a decidedly rude gesture. "Less than a week, at this rate," she said.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Cassandra scored a hit on Cullen's weak side and twisted her body to catch his answering strike on her shield. Cullen had switched out his usual sword and board for a battle-axe, likely to make his loss more painful for himself. It was the kind of stupid thing he would do. Still, a one-hander versus two-hander was always a more interesting fight, especially when their styles were so similar.

"Sure you don't. Just remember, you've got to let us know," said Sera. "Payouts and all. Now, where do you think someone would hide some clothes around here?"

* * *

The relative quiet of the tavern was a blessed relief after the roaring crowds in the yard. And hygiene had certainly never been the main focus of the Inquisition, a situation which had clearly not changed in the intervening years. The smells alone were enough to put a man off his feed for a month.

But the tavern smelled like polished wood and old ale, and it was dim even in streaming daylight. The soundproofing must have been better here, more to protect the outside than the inside. It was a perfect place to recover fallen nerves, and Dorian's had fallen so far as to nearly be in the icy lake below.

He sidled up to the bar and traded a few crowns for a small bottle of hard liquor, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he slid the coins over the counter. He'd thought he'd had a headache before. He'd thought he'd already dreaded the reintroduction as much as it was possible to dread anything in the world that wasn't actually death or a dinner with his father. But somehow in all of his bright memories of his time with the Inquisition, he'd forgotten what it was like to stand in front of Maxwell Trevelyan and have his full attention. Like the sun had swooped down from the sky and paused, to be only his for a few, glorious minutes.

Of course, the sun would also burn him alive if it stayed long enough.

Maker damn the man. Damn him and his steady, piercing eyes, full of promised pleasure, and his tiny, knowing smirk that promised only pain. Dorian had no doubt they'd tumble nicely, if they fell together again. He'd been half a heartbeat away from turning the magic from soothing to electric right in the middle of the yard. If Maxwell had accepted the invitation to the tavern, Dorian would already be fumbling with his armor in the storeroom, stripping away that ugly green metal from the hard, gorgeous body that he knew lay underneath.

But of course he hadn't accepted. Maxwell loved to be adored, almost as much as he hated to be trapped. And he could turn his regard on and off as easily as another man removed a glove. Too much desperation, too much _want,_ suited him not at all.

Dorian would have to be more careful in the future. But now that the initial shock was past, that rushing of memory absorbed, he was sure he could manage that future quite well.

He grabbed his purchased bottle and headed for the stairs - the upper level was usually easier to get lost in, even with a caravan of muscle at one's back - but before he made it, a bulky figure swung in front of them.

"Hey, Vint."

Fantastic. "Bull. Now my afternoon really is complete."

The qunari laughed, not at all put out. And why should he be? He'd been the victor in their little unofficial competition, after all.

Dorian glared at him, and Bull jerked his head to the back wall. "C'mon. Have a drink with me. I won't even ask you to share," he said. He turned to the trailing soldiers. "You can go guard the door."

"Lady Montilyet was very specific," the corporal began, but stopped when Bull casually flexed his enormous arms.

"If I see a Chantry Mother, I'll put him in a damn headlock," said Bull. "Go away."

Dorian watched them leave with a sigh and headed towards Bull's usual table. Before the qunari had settled Dorian was already taking a long pull from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crossed his legs expectantly as he stared at the giant watching him. Dorian had never been sure if they were allies or enemies, but they were certainly something.

"That bad to be home?" asked Bull with a touch of sympathy.

He wondered if Bull meant the two years or just today. "That bad to be anywhere, frankly."

Bull cocked an eyebrow. "Huh. Well, I'm glad you're back, for what it's worth. The place loses a little something without you," he said.

"Flair? Style? Unrepentant beauty?"

"Bullshit, actually."

"Everyone's a critic," said Dorian, taking another drink. "Bullshit helps the world go round, you know."

Bull chuckled. "I wasn't complaining," he said. He looked around with interest. "The Chargers just got back ourselves yesterday. Long assignment in Ferelden. No demons this time, which was a fucking relief. Just a lot of assholes. And one dragon."

Dorian ignored the self-satisfied smile and asked, "Lose any men?"

"A couple. New guys. They joined for the glory. Weren't really merc material, but I think I'm getting soft in my old age," said Bull. His face, as always, was so expressive that it was unreadable. "Thanks for asking, though. You're not bad, for a Vint."

"The Imperium thinks I'm a southerner now, actually. It would be charming if it weren't so insulting."

"They've obviously never seen how damn fussy you are about your bathing," said Bull. "That's pure Vint. Easiest way to ambush them was always to wait by the nearest hot spring."

Dorian laughed lightly. A companionable silence fell between them, and they drank quietly for a time, listening to the minstrel, sinking into the dimness of the room and remembering. Or imagining, in Dorian's case. Wondering. Questioning. It was a perpetual problem.

He gathered up his courage and said easily, "I'm surprised you've let the Inquisitor leave his quarters if you killed a dragon on your trip."

A wicked smile curved across Bull's lips, and Dorian tried not to react. Dragon-killing was Bull's greatest pleasure in life, but sex was the second, and the two had dove-tailed nicely where Maxwell was concerned. After the one blissful night and disastrous morning he'd spent with Dorian, the Inquisitor had moved on immediately to a new conquest. If anyone could conquer someone like Iron Bull. But obviously the mercenary's more relaxed approach to the bedroom arts had suited the Inquisitor just fine. Dorian had lost count of the number of times the two warriors had come through the Skyhold gates carrying some piece of dragon, then headed to Maxwell's rooms to recover.

The recovery had often taken days.

When he raised the bottle to his lips again, for something to do, it was distressingly light, and he realized with slight embarrassment that he was drunk. No wonder his courage had been so easily found.

Bull still looked amused. "Nah, I killed that thing weeks ago. There was an archer though, lived nearby, joined the hunt. She _really_ liked to hunt dragons," he said. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Haven't killed a dragon with the boss in a long time."

Dorian peered at him muzzily. Did that mean…? "But you were both so enthusiastic about it."

"Everything ends," said Bull. "Especially that. Sometimes people need things. Then they don't. It's really not a big deal."

In theory, Dorian agreed. Ports in storms, passing fancies, trinkets easily picked up and set aside. Transience was the only defense of the heart. Hadn't he learned that by rote from a very young age? And yet some part of him stubbornly refused to give in, insisting connection was the most important thing in the world. He didn't have the words to explain it. Especially to himself.

Bull uncracked his eye and gave him a lazy grin. "Not that I don't appreciate how subtle you're being, of course, but let's stop dancing. I get it. You want to ride the Bull. Nothing wrong with that."

"I want to… what?" Dorian stared at the qunari in horror. "That's what you're getting out of this conversation?"

"Yep," said Bull. "Loud and clear. It's no problem. Hell, I've been expecting it. And I always wondered if I could get you to light something on fire." He sat up and leaned across the table with a predatory stare. "I bet I could."

For a long minute, Dorian was sorely tempted. Bull's warrior body wasn't as gorgeous as the Inquisitor's, but he was big and muscled and powerful in all the right places. It had been so long - too long - since he'd had anyone but a fawning mage or an almost-famous artisan in his bed. Delightful and sweet, of course, but they were the lightness of a dessert when what he really craved was a three-course meal. And someone like Bull would probably be extra courses.

His eyes wandered down the man, and he breathed in slowly. Maxwell had always seemed very satisfied. Annoying at the time, intriguing now. Dorian could almost feel those large hands on him, never gentle but hot and urgent and driving him towards something better than he'd had since…

His imagination stuttered, and he sighed. Since the Inquisitor. And the large hands he was feeling weren't imaginations, they were memories of a real person, someone who certainly wasn't Bull. It never paid to take a man to bed just to overlay another desire on him. It left both sides unsatisfied.

"I haven't lit anything on fire since I was quite young. Accidentally, anyway. It's not something I'd want to repeat," said Dorian. He stood, vaguely proud of his steady feet. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer. And the drink. For a barbarian, you're surprisingly affable."

"So I've been told," said Bull. He looked up, and Dorian saw a startling amount of concern on his face, considering the qunari had just been propositioning him moments before. "You sure you're okay?"

Dorian, for once, didn't try a dismissively cheerful response. "I am. Thank you. In another time, you may have even been right about my intentions."

Bull nodded. "Yeah, timing's tricky, isn't it? Hard to see clearly," he said. He leaned back with a smile and signaled a server for another drink. "Still, it's good to know what you want."


	3. Clean Burn

"Do you think, if we could get them to coordinate all of those disapproving sniffs, they could lift a napkin clean off of the table?"

Dorian's voice wafted over, light and secretive, carrying just far enough to reach Maxwell's expectant ears. He bit back a laugh as he studied the serene, attentive row of Chantry ladies on the right side of the giant, U-shaped table. They weren't exactly sniffing, but the temperature from that direction was a little frosty. Mother Giselle seemed to be the main source of the chill, but it was spreading the more he whispered to his neighbor.

Dangerous whispers, which Josephine's pointed looks were reminding him of constantly, but this was much too fun to stop.

"I think we'd have to give them something much more scandalous to get that kind of force," said Maxwell in a low voice.

"More scandalous than a Tevinter interloper seated at your right hand during a formal dinner? While you drink the Imperium's finest wine? Impossible. If you accidentally slice your finger and bleed all over the meat course, you'll practically be a high-ranking member of the Magisterium."

Maxwell grinned. "I lack the basic requirement for membership, I think."

Dorian lowered his gaze to the hand that gripped a goblet full of sickly sweet liquid. The faint glow of the mark was easily visible against the metal. "Divinely bestowed magic is probably a loophole," he said. "Even if it's only alleged. But very well. How do you intend to raise the stakes for your guests?"

The faint smile on his face was extremely distracting, but Maxwell focused it away. In a way the afternoon's injury had been very useful. Now that Dorian wasn't actually touching him, it was much easier to keep his mind on the task at hand. Namely, acting as though he were incapable of distraction at all.

Maxwell leaned back and stroked his jaw with a light finger. "Well, I'm sure we have at least a dozen silk scarves somewhere around here. I seem to remember you'd have use for them."

The mage laughed, loudly and without restraint, and more than one head turned to stare at them. Maxwell waved to the room and clapped Dorian on the back heartily. Dorian wiped at the corner of his eye as his chuckles slowly subsided. "I'll need far more wine than this paltry offering to satisfy that level of curiosity."

"That can be arranged," said Maxwell, winking.

Before Dorian could answer, a young, heavily bejeweled woman approached the table and curtsied prettily. She carried a mask that she didn't wear, in deference to the customs of Skyhold, and her hair was powdered and styled in a very unbecoming, but fashionable, way. Maxwell nodded slowly, searching the dark recesses of his mind before it threw up an internal dossier. Comtesse Valencia. Orlesian by way of Antiva, connected to a powerful merchant family, married to a less powerful noble than she would like, and making a play for expanded holdings in the south of her new nation. The Inquisition was helping her through both diplomatic and back channels, and he was meant to reassure her of the organization's unwavering support.

And, by her lowered lashes, she obviously wanted to be flattered. Maxwell rose smoothly and made a true bow, this time taking her hand and brushing it with his lips. "My dear Comtesse, I'm so pleased you could make the journey to Skyhold. I know that this is a difficult time to be away from the beauty of Orlais, but its loss is certainly our gain," he said. The woman blushed a little more hotly than she would have if she were truly Orlesian, which was all to the good. He definitely wasn't at his sharpest this evening.

"Tell me," he continued, "did your husband make the journey with you?"

"No, Your Grace, he prefers to personally oversee the vineyards. They are very delicate. Do not feel slighted, however. He rarely travels outside the home," she said. The corners of her mouth drew up slightly, and he bit back a sigh.

Under cover of sweeping to the left in introduction, he shot Leliana a questioning look, and he was very relieved when she gave a small shake of her head. It wasn't that he'd never bedded a woman, or a man, to build a coalition, but it hadn't been something he particularly enjoyed. "You know our head diplomat, I believe. And the Lady Leliana," he said. He went down the line, finally adding, "And this is Altus Dorian Pavus, ambassador from the Imperium."

He half-expected Dorian to make some cutting remark, or give a compliment with a knife buried inside of it, but instead he smiled politely. "A pleasure, Comtesse. Is this your first trip to Skyhold?"

"Oh yes," she said, fluttering her mask in front of her face. "It's very imposing. A worthy seat of power for such a great man."

"Indeed," said Dorian with only a miniscule raise of his brow. "Make sure you explore the gardens while you're here. They're quite breathtaking, though nothing compared to your own beauty."

"Thank you, messere," she said, a little hesitantly, before turning back to Maxwell. "But I regret that my stay will be quite short. There are always duties at home to be attended to, are there not?"

"The sad state of affairs for those who accept the mantle of responsibility," he answered. "Nevertheless, if you can remain here through the next week, you can both attend our next fete and return home with an easy heart. It wouldn't do to leave before the hospitality of Skyhold is thoroughly exhausted."

The Comtesse smiled with a touch of satisfaction. "I appreciate that, Your Grace. I will do so. As long as I can be assured at least one dance with my host, of course."

"There could be no partner more desirable," said Maxwell with another gallant bow. When she pretended to wipe at invisible tears of overwhelming emotion, he rose to the occasion as though he hadn't known the ploy was coming. In a flash, he presented his handkerchief, handsomely monogrammed with the symbol of the Inquisition, for her to take.

She murmured her appreciation and curtsied graciously when he insisted she keep it. As Maxwell sat back down, carefully keeping his smile in place, Dorian clapped his hands together behind the table with a smirk.

Maxwell narrowed his eyes and mouthed, _Stop it._

"A fine performance should always be recognized," said Dorian. "You're quite good at this, you know. Much better than you used to be. And you used to be unparalleled."

"Who says I'm performing?" asked Maxwell, suddenly irritated. "You were certainly gushing at her enough."

Dorian sipped his wine with insouciant sophistication, which was another impossible thing that he made look easy. "My life is a performance. Fatuous, puerile, and vapid. It's why they gave me this empty position," he said. "It's not much more of an effort to flatter the undeserving alongside the deserving."

Maxwell wondered if he was one of the deserving ones. He also wondered what Dorian meant about the emptiness of his job, and how much he was trying to hide. But mostly he wanted to take the bitter look out of those dark, tense eyes. "That sounds like your father talking. Not you."

"What's that charming Fereldan saying? Even a blind druffalo finds a patch of grass every once in a while? The fact that my father is so often wrong doesn't preclude him from ever being right."

Another knot of guests interrupted their conversation, and Maxwell ran through his social graces with as much enthusiasm as possible. This group was from the Marches, which was less fraught with doublespeak and flattery, but it did mean that they could talk a man's ear off. By the time they moved on, Josephine was giving him another pointed look, and Cullen was showing that very specific restlessness that meant he was about to receive some urgent summons from his captains that they would all have to pretend to believe, so Maxwell rose and clinked his glass with solemn ceremony.

As he thanked the guests for their humbling support, particularly the distinguished members of the Chantry, he heard barely audible noises behind him and knew Dorian was being amusing again. And when he heard Josephine cough gently, the remnants of a giggle inside of it, he knew Dorian must be in rare form. She never broke for anything.

He spared a minute at the end to welcome the new ambassador, and Dorian's face was angelic and guileless as he stood alongside him to accept the overture. "I know you're mocking me," said Maxwell between his teeth as they waved to the clapping audience. The Chantry sisters were less clapping than glowering noisily, but it was close enough.

"Just admiring the cut of your trousers," said Dorian with a sunny smile. All traces of his melancholy were gone, so completely that it was hard to believe they'd ever existed. And when they began to eat, the mage launched in to amusing tales of the Imperium that were light, airy and utterly meaningless.

* * *

After dinner, Dorian made his way gingerly through the doors out of the hall and to the atrium. Solas's old place, before he'd vanished off the face of the planet. At least he wouldn't have to worry about receiving an impromptu lecture on slavery every time he wanted a late-night snack. Not that he could even think about eating. The Inquisition apparently subsisted on much sturdier rations now that they'd become the official Savior of Everything We Hold Dear.

He paused in the library to find a book for the evening - preferably one with very large print and very short words - and tipped a nod to the lurking librarian. The man barely acknowledged him, engrossed in some old scrolls that Dorian longed to examine. It had seemed like a new, pricelessly ancient writing had appeared every day during the height of the war, and he could only imagine what new treasures they'd discovered in his absence.

But not tonight. He could feel the Revered Mothers lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. His room would be much safer.

When he heard the unmistakable sound of his jailors clanking away from him, he worried he'd taken too long to secure his safety, but a half-turn revealed Maxwell shooing them away with alacrity. Dorian sighed. His pulse was speeding up, as it always did, but he was uncharacteristically exhausted of flirting and pretense tonight. Tomorrow would be negotiations and assignations and more shields against the hatred of the world. For now, he only wanted to rest.

But no, that would never be acceptable. So Dorian turned around with a sardonic smile and said, "Another familiar sight. Do you still run to and fro, saying your hellos, checking in on all of your faithful followers?"

Maxwell didn't smile back. "Only the important ones."

And that was far too direct for his exhausted state. "Careful," said Dorian. "Tongues are apt to start wagging if talk like that gets around."

"Fine," said Maxwell. "Let them talk. They'd barely have time in their day to fit a new topic in. Besides, it's just us."

Dorian reached up and lightly touched a wall sconce beside him. "Leliana had all of these fitted with tubes that funnel any conversation directly to the rookery. Didn't you?" he added to the fixture. "Cough twice for yes."

After a pause, two loud coughs sounded above them, and Maxwell gaped. Dorian shrugged. "When you spend enough time here, you start to notice when things change. It was very clever work. And it did finally cure me of my persistent habit of talking to myself as I read."

A delighted smile graced the Inquisitor's lips, and Dorian's heart sped up again. "That's adorable."

"Believe me, it isn't," said Dorian, sternly checking himself. "My instructors tried everything short of blood magic to remove the tendency, and I think by the end they were sorely tempted to chance it. Even Alexius hated it, and he loved everything I did."

Maxwell didn't look like he believed that, but he only said, "Well, I'm sorry we were spying on you while you were here. I wasn't aware."

"I don't think it was personal. The library was merely conveniently located. And I did make my own fun. I muttered to myself in Tevene for a week straight, once. Old cookery recipes. I never did find out if she tried any of them."

"If one of them was for a chocolate-topped strawberry dessert, she did. And it was terrible," said Maxwell. "Leave, Leliana. I need to talk to Dorian."

They waited for a few seconds before Dorian leaned over to stage whisper, "It's hard to know if that worked, isn't it?" In more normal tones he added, "Best not to chance it, I expect. And I need at least a full night of beauty rest, if not more, to maintain this flawless visage, so perhaps we could defer any chats until later."

"No."

Ah, and there was that stubborn set of the eyes and mulish thrust of the chin that Dorian knew far too well. Whenever they'd argued over mage rights, or slavery versus brutality, or which Chantry had the right of things - or less of the wrong - there would come the physical manifestations of internal tension. Nostrils flaring, breath coming a little faster, biceps flexed across his chest. It was a very intoxicating pose.

"You've gotten bossy while I was away," said Dorian lightly. "Must have something to do with running the entire world."

Maxwell folded his arms on cue, though sadly his tunic was in the way of the truly interesting sights. "Stop it," he said.

"Stop what? Speaking? Difficult to converse with one party mute, I would think. Unless this is one of those chats where you simply lecture me and I nod and say, wide-eyed and worshipful, 'Yes, of course, you're always right' at the end? I've been very well-trained for that."

"That. Stop that. The joking and the dancing and the deflecting."

So he wanted to be serious, now. Maxwell always had liked to change the mood of a room in an instant. It kept people off balance. But that didn't mean Dorian had to play. "I don't know how you expect me to stop being myself," said Dorian. He summoned up all of the remnants of charisma he could find and smiled. "My wit is a river that always flows."

Maxwell slammed his fist into a shelf, and Dorian blinked at him, trying not to be worried. Or at least not look it.

"This _isn't_ you," said Maxwell. His eyes were searching and more than a little annoyed. "What happened in Tevinter? You've always been a flirt and a charmer and an exasperating bastard, but you've never been so angry."

"I remember being quite irritated on multiple occasions," said Dorian, a little confused. "My countrymen almost destroyed the world, you know. Twice."

"Sure, at them. Or at your father. Or me," Maxwell added as an afterthought. "But not at yourself." He stepped forward, just that inch or two closer, and suddenly Dorian's personal space was much warmer. And much more dear. "What happened in Tevinter?"

"It's been two years. A great many things have happened," said Dorian.

But the Inquisitor was obviously done playing, too. This was no longer ballroom Maxwell, or even the new, reigning version. This was the man on the battlefield, sizing up the enemy, and saving his strength for the best openings. How many times had Dorian watched his ever-present laughter vanish into indomitable, ruthless purpose? Red Templars or bandits or a wayward druffalo, the enemy made no difference. Maxwell was always at the fore, and he always won. There was nothing he wouldn't use for victory. Including people.

Even after Maxwell had agreed lightly that the one night should be all they had, even after he'd watched a broken-hearted man leave with indifferent eyes, he'd still taken Dorian with him on every journey into the wilds of Thedas. At first Dorian had thought it a sign of his effortless detachment, and perhaps it was in part. But a few weeks later, around the fire in some remote wasteland, they'd been alone together for the first time. And Maxwell had said, out of the blue, "I'm glad you're with us, Dorian. You're the best at what you do. Probably the best mage I've ever seen. Don't tell Vivienne I said so."

The stars had been nearly covered with fine, thin clouds, but a few had winked at them as he'd stood and turned to his tent. Before he reached it, he'd added, "But make sure to guard yourself. I need you to stay healthy."

That was as close as he'd ever gotten to saying that Dorian was indispensable to the fight even if he was disposable in the bedroom, but it had been enough to understand. Maxwell didn't get attached to anything. But he would always use the best tools for the job, no matter how little he regarded them. And the real, secret power of the man was, even that small acknowledgment of worth had been enough to keep Dorian close.

Dorian wondered if Maxwell had ever noticed that he was always the first one he healed.

But right now the Inquisitor's tools were oppressive silence and the carefully crafted concern in his eyes. Maxwell was a tall man, despite what Dorian told his countrymen, and he towered above as he willed Dorian to answer the question.

Before Dorian could marshal his own, not inconsiderable, obstinacy, Maxwell raised his hand and laid it on Dorian's shoulder. It was the casual comfort of one soldier to another, or the simple gesture of a friend. There wasn't even any true contact, since Dorian had opted for a less revealing shirt in deference to the holy visitors. It didn't matter. Every muscle in his body tensed, and when the tip of Maxwell's thumb ghosted across the exposed skin of his throat in a slow caress, he almost went through the ceiling.

"What happened?" asked Maxwell for a third time, low and insistent.

Dorian swallowed heavily. The melodic baritone was gone, replaced by the bedroom rumble, and he wondered exactly how obvious he'd been in his desires.

Too obvious, apparently, if the Inquisitor had chosen this tool for his interrogation. Dorian shook the hand away and said, "Nothing happened." When Maxwell growled, he cut him off with a glare. "It's meant literally. Nothing. My grand plans for change, all the idealistic hopes I'd picked up from your ragtag team of optimists… all for naught I'm afraid."

The other man frowned, and Dorian chuckled darkly. "Hard to believe, I know. Me? Charming, handsome and erudite, unable to accomplish the relatively simple task of talking the Imperium's head out of its own ass? But it seems some people were born to be effective. I'm simply not one of them."

"Things have changed," said Maxwell, crossing his arms again. "You forget I'm in a position to know. Better than most, thanks to my spymaster. Every week we get new Tevinter allies. And only a few of them have been spies."

"I'd never doubt the Nightingale," said Dorian. "At least, not while expecting to survive the process. But it's not enough. Like trying to empty an ocean with a thimble. There will always be arrogant Tevinters, and they will never see even the smallest shred of reason. While the power rests in their unstable hands, nothing will truly change." He looked away and sighed. "People have been murdered, you know."

"I know. I've been continually amazed you weren't one of them."

Dorian smiled with more genuine humor. "I think a few of my old acquaintances might have been tempted, at least after I raided their liquor stocks." He sobered. "But I'm of no threat to the knife-holders. I have no power."

"You have enormous power," said Maxwell.

Dorian lifted his hand and let a spark of lightning run over it, side to side.

"Not that. _You_ do. In who you are. You're just too much of a coward to use it."

The lightning died a fast death. "Excuse me?"

But Maxwell didn't seem to hear. "Maybe not a coward. Not exactly. But you always quit before the fight is over. You're the one I had to watch like a hawk to make sure that you didn't relax until the enemies were dead. You're still the one who has all of the exits cataloged before you enter a room. Figuring out how to escape a situation before you're even in it. Revolution won't work like that. It can't," he said. "Building things takes time, Dorian. It takes some damn effort."

Maxwell raked his eyes over Dorian's face. His jaw tightened. "You're not a coward. You're a quitter."

Later, Dorian would remember the blazing, hot look on the other man's face and understand he'd been spoiling for a fight. Maybe because he'd lost his bout that afternoon. Maybe he'd had to be nice to one too many nobles. Maybe his collar was too tight. Whatever it was, in that moment, the Inquisitor's wish was granted.

"I see you've been corresponding with my father," said Dorian dryly. His voice shook only a little. "Tell me, did he give you the exact wording of this little speech, or was it mere suggestion?"

"Your father," spit Maxwell. Without moving an inch, he seemed to draw closer, but Dorian refused to shrink away. "Let's talk about him. How long did it take you to run back to a man you hate once you were home? A man who partially hates you, whether he admits it or not? Was it a month? Two? Your fine clothes and your slaves came from somewhere, Dorian. Did you find it all too risky, to actually commit to a principle for once?"

"Haven't you heard? A Tevinter citizen isn't allowed to have any principles at all. It's written right into the articles of governance."

"Stop it!" growled Maxwell. A few heads turned to stare at them, and he lowered his voice. "The world isn't a joke. Neither are you. You have so much potential, and you just… waste it. It's infuriating. I started as the powerless third son, but I gave every task they set me more than my best, and each one rewarded me. You won't even give the tasks you set for yourself a token effort. How can you expect anyone else to follow your vision if you barely seem to believe in it yourself? At least the lunatics in the Magisterium don't fake their confidence. At least they don't defeat themselves."

It was a slap to the face, a hit that Dorian felt down to his very bones, but in a wild, lost moment he almost laughed. He looked at the fixtures of Skyhold, at this fortress that had risen around the Inquisition like a fitted coat, and it was too much. _You don't know anything_ , he wanted to say. _Don't you see that we aren't all like you? That we aren't all so blessed?_

It wasn't even his fault, not truly. It must be difficult to understand mortals as a god. To see what it was to be afraid, loathed, cast aside. Maxwell was a beacon, the flame that drew the moths, and he had never known a day of rejection in his life. He didn't know emptiness, or how a man might have no home, no place or person that needed him. He'd never looked into the eyes of his father and heard him say, "Change," in an echoing voice that branded the soul. He'd never had to demand love from the people who should have given it, fully and without reserve.

He'd never walked to his rooms at the end of the night, desperate for any contact, for any shred of relief from the crushing weight of the world, and had nothing and no one. He'd never listened to the rain in the dark, wondering what the worth of his own life was.

He'd never taken an appointment as ambassador just to go back to a place that had been burning, longing happiness for one night. He'd never dreamed of Maxwell Trevelyan.

Maxwell lived. He flourished. He was valued and adored, and it had only taken him a few short years to wrap the entirety of the world around his little finger. So no, it wasn't his fault. It was just who he was.

Dorian closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe evenly. "Not all of us can snap our fingers and get whatever we want."

"Neither can I."

"Name one thing you want that you can't have. One thing you want to do that you couldn't," said Dorian, opening his eyes in time to see Maxwell's irritated face smooth into blankness. "You can't. The Inquisitor has everything. And the rest of us will have to muddle along the best we can."

"That's not an excuse," said Maxwell. "Something being difficult to do is no reason to stop trying."

"Then you do it," snapped Dorian. "Go to Tevinter and fix everything. Waltz in with a smile and a wave of your hand and reverse centuries of arrogance and mistakes. Cow them or charm them or do whatever it is you do instead of sitting here with your Comtesses and your fetes."

Maxwell narrowed his eyes. "You want me to go to war with your country."

"What I _want_ is to go to bed. What I _want_ is to forget that I ever once considered someone as supercilious as you a friend."

The other man said nothing, and Dorian reveled in even that small victory. "You have some books to pick up," he added, brushing past his silent companion. "If you'll excuse me."

A hand reached out and pulled lightly on his arm. "Dorian," said Maxwell quietly. "Wait. We were friends. We still are. Don't leave."

"Friends don't fuck each other, Inquisitor," said Dorian with a sharp smile, entirely past control. "I'm certain I've seen that written down somewhere."

Before his mouth could betray him any further, he left.

* * *

Back in his room, Shayla was carefully picking at something, and Dorian realized dully that she was removing a bright orange patch from one of his shirts. She looked up at his face as he stared and, without a word, rose to get a cup of water for him. He settled into bed, fully clothed, and took the offering with a small, "Thank you."

"Sleep well, Dorian," she said in reply, and he drifted off to the sound of her chair creaking as she worked.

* * *

Maxwell walked back to his quarters with deliberate vigor. There were still visitors and Inquisition members in the Hall, and he waved and smiled at them as he passed. But he didn't linger, because he held in his hands three books in Tevene, designed to help a person learn the language, and he didn't need any questions about them at all.

As he climbed the staircase to his room, his step slowed, and by the time he reached the top he was barely moving. He entered to see everything exactly as he'd left it, tidy except for the pile of armor in the corner that he was still testing out. He dropped the books on his desk without opening them, then wandered over to the cabinet of ostentatious valuables Josephine insisted on housing in his room. Just in case he was bedding someone important, he supposed.

The top shelf held a set of Antivan daggers, a present from the Crows at the conclusion of some successful business or other. He didn't know much about their underworld contacts, and that suited him just fine. But he always liked a handsome weapon, and these were beautifully crafted, unmarked and polished to a noticeable shine that seemed out of step with assassins.

He hadn't meant to yell at Dorian. He didn't know what he'd meant to do, not really, but it hadn't been that. It figured that the first person they'd sent from the Imperium who might actually be a valuable negotiating partner was the only person who'd ever really gotten under his skin. Maxwell played the Game easily, with its indomitable rules that could be bent just so, but Dorian had never had any kind of discernible rules to his name. Or, if he did, they were all broken so often they might as well not exist.

When Maxwell lifted the daggers and felt their heft, he looked around at the yawning, chilled room. He kept the windows open as long as he could in the Frostbacks, anxious to bring some of the outside world into his space. The more the Inquisition went on, the further removed he was from it. And it was nice to think that something so common as mountain air could survive his grandiosity.

The curtains were the same pattern they'd been since the Inquisition moved in to the place. Dorian had called them ghastly before he'd walked out of the room for the first and last time, not a hair out of a place or a wobble in his voice. He'd clearly had no interest in returning. Maxwell remembered it all perfectly, and often. Especially the oh-so-charming fucking.

While the room filled with the frost of night, he threw the daggers again and again, watching them clatter and lose their sheen against the walls. Each time he picked them up, there were new scratches on their hilts and dullnesses in their blades. He filled the curtain's ugly patterns with slices and holes and relived his memories once more.


	4. Line In the Sand

On his fifth trip around the gardens, Dorian had to face it. He was lurking.

Like some desperate, innocent schoolboy dying to catch a glimpse of his idol or a sharp-eyed beauty looking to make a new acquaintance, he looked up at every new entrant to the area, hoping to see piercing green eyes gazing towards the permanently ensconced chess table. Unless things had changed drastically in recent years, Maxwell would take any opportunity he could to play. He was terrible at the game, but defeat had only seemed to spur him on.

And chess would be a good opportunity to save Dorian's so-far disastrous diplomatic career.

He'd awoken that morning from nightmares about what the Magisterium, much less his father, would say when they learned that before his first day was out he'd managed to alienate the Inquisition's powerful leader. They'd given him very clear, very unyielding instructions about what he was to do. Go to Skyhold. Renew his standing as an ally while maintaining his fervent patriotism. Avert war. Instead he'd gotten drunk, irritated multiple members of the inner circle, then invited the Inquisition to invade and reform his country as soon as the forces could be spared.

All while making calf's eyes at Trevelyan before sniping at him like a heartbroken lover and storming off to sulk. His father would be particularly incisive about the last. Yes, it had truly been a day to remember for a first-time ambassador.

Reconciliation over chess was a long shot, but it was the only spell left at his disposal. Back when they'd flirted incessantly and deliciously, chess had always been a place of relative calm between them. Even after their sparks had fizzled out, at least on one side, they'd still found themselves opposite one another whenever they had the chance. If there were any place Dorian could corral his wayward heart, it would be there. If only Maxwell would oblige him by appearing.

The one comfort was that, with the departure of the Chantry, he was no longer surrounded by metal everywhere he went.

He was about to start another lap when a determined hair-do bore down on him, and he pasted a smile on his face. He detested the Game, but he'd be damned if he'd let the Inquisitor out-charm him. "Comtesse Valencia. A pleasure and a joy to see you this morning."

"Too kind of you, Ambassador Pavus. As you can see, I've taken your gracious advice to explore the gardens. They are as charming as you said," she answered, thrusting her gloved hand towards him in unspoken command.

He kissed it with nary a twitch of his face, then folded her arm under his as he walked. They made very small talk about the acquaintances they had in common, about books they'd read, and about the vintages of wines they'd yet to drink. The Comtesse seemed determined to monopolize him, and he was beginning to despair that they'd be able come up with any new, banal topics to discuss when she suddenly said, "I've heard there's a lovely statue of Andraste in the chapel. Would you show me?"

Dorian paused briefly, well-aware that it would take him out of the sightlines of the doors, but he saw no way out of agreeing. He led her to the small chamber, which was surprisingly empty at this time of day, and ushered her in with as much of a flourish as he could summon.

When she closed the door behind her and turned to him with a determined look, he worried that it might have been a little too much.

The Comtesse advanced on him quickly, and he took a step back into the wall. "Thank the Maker we're finally alone," she said.

"Ah, about that," Dorian began, but she cut him off before he could continue.

"Yes, I realize one never knows," she said. She reached under the neckline of her dress, and Dorian bit back a surprised noise. For Maker's sake, he was acting like a wide-eyed country lad instead of the world-weary man he was. But this was beyond even his experience. In Tevinter, they knew better with him.

When her hand emerged with a piece of folded parchment, it was almost an anti-climax. "Here," she said.

He took it, slightly stunned, but before he could ask what it was she added, "I never thought it would be _you_. The Imperium is very bold. Just tell them it's done."

 _What's done?_ he was on the verge of asking when the door opened once more. In a flash, the Comtesse was on him, kissing him lightly on the mouth before expertly backing away with an embarrassed fluttering of her fan. She rushed out, throwing a murmured apology to the door's occupant, who turned out to be a startled Cullen Rutherford.

The only upside of that fresh embarrassment was that Cullen was almost as embarrassed as Dorian. "I, ah, I'm sorry to have interrupted," he said, blush rising. "I only came to do my devotions. In the Chantry."

The heavy emphasis on the final word brought a fresh wave of shame. Dorian looked at the statue of Andraste, still present but with an oddly judging look on her usually serene face. He hadn't grown up with the idea she was holy, but if fighting ancient magisters had taught him anything, it was that it paid to be careful around the supposedly divine. "Well, if one can't do something in front of the Maker, one shouldn't be doing it all I suppose," he offered lamely.

"But you," said Cullen, then seemed to check himself. "It's none of my concern. If I may pray?"

Dorian nodded regally, as though he were bestowing a grand favor, and made for the door with as much deliberation as he could. It was a rather good performance, and he was very proud of it up until the moment Cullen unexpectedly said, "If you're not busy, would you like to play some chess after I'm finished?"

"Are you going to lecture me about the precarious state of my immortal soul?" asked Dorian with a hint of trepidation.

Cullen smiled crookedly. "Not as long as you don't lecture me about mine."

"Perish the thought. Very well, I accept."

* * *

Cullen was a relatively silent player, intent on his pieces and those of his opponent. He'd obviously done quite a lot of work learning the best possible moves each side could make out of several common positions. Dorian always had fun creating the most uncommon positions possible to infuriate him.

But today he was more preoccupied with his twin mysteries. Namely what the paper in his pocket was all about - it had turned out to be blank, on both sides - and the puzzle of the missing Inquisitor.

"You seem distracted," said Cullen once after he moved. "Is everything okay?"

Dorian snapped his eyes back to the board and tried to reorient. "I'm superb, as always. Though being here again is stranger than I expected."

"Yes, I understand. I haven't left Skyhold in so long I'd likely feel the same way if I made it more than a mile outside of the gates," said Cullen with a low chuckle. "Not that I mind. Not really. It's better to be here than fighting darkspawn or -"

When he broke off, Dorian smiled wolfishly. "You can say it, Commander. Tevinter madmen. Unless you're counting me among them, I entirely see your point."

"No, of course not," said Cullen. He coughed and crossed his legs. "I'm actually very glad you're here. It will help remind the troops that not every Imperial face they see is an enemy's. And I haven't had a good game of chess in far too long."

"I'm not sure you're getting a very good one now either," said Dorian ruefully as he moved a knight. "You should train more of your allies in its intricacies. Or seek them outside of your close acquaintance. I remember de Chevin was a good man at the board."

The corner's of Cullen's mouth drew down, briefly. "Yes, I'm sure he is," he muttered. More loudly, he added, "I've tried to instruct some, but I'm afraid I'm better at explaining sword techniques than games of strategy. And Leliana plays, of course, but she always cheats."

The blonde man moved another piece and sighed. "I tried to teach Cassandra once, but I don't think she liked it very much."

Dorian tried to picture the Seeker sitting still long enough to work out the rules, much less the strategies, but he gave up almost as quickly as she would have. "Yes, I can see why that might not have taken a firm hold."

They played in silence for a few more minutes, and Dorian had to focus closely to keep it from being an absolute rout. Just as he was wondering if there were any possible way he could extract himself from his disadvantageous position, Cullen asked, "Do you know any poems?"

"Yes," he replied absently. Maybe if he moved his rook up? "Poetry was a part of every noble's education in Tevinter. Dreary stuff, mostly, taking up valuable space in the mind, but you can't excavate it all."

"Do you know any, ah, romantic ones?"

That got his attention. Dorian looked up with a suggestive smile that he knew from experience would fluster his opponent. "Why, Commander, are you looking for me to court you? I do look spectacular under moonlight."

"No!" said Cullen quickly. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the table. "I just thought… well, that you might be able to help me. As a friend. But I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"Cullen," said Dorian, oddly touched. "Forgive me. Romance is no joking matter. I would be delighted to help." He leaned back and stroked his mustache, studying the man. "What exactly are you looking for?"

Cullen shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Something nice."

Sweet Maker, what was he to do with such a man? "Nice," said Dorian slowly.

"Yes. Nice. I went to the library, and they gave me some books, but they were all Antivan."

Dorian choked back a laugh as Cullen's face reddened again. "I see. Perhaps a little too focused on the physical nature of love, hm?"

The other man nodded pathetically, and Dorian's sympathy was roused from whatever depths he'd buried it in. He finally moved his rook and said lightly, "I think I have exactly the thing. I'll have some more appropriate books sent to your office later today." He smiled. "In penance for my shameful manners, I won't even ask about the ears which will receive these dulcet rhythms from your lips."

"Thank you," said Cullen. He closed the trap he'd been laying with his queen, and Dorian hissed at the move. The Commander chuckled, then asked hesitantly, "Is moonlight helpful?"

"In my experience, it never hurts."

Their conversation was interrupted by a fusillade of giggles, and Cullen immediately snapped to attention. Dorian was a little less tightly wound, but his own spine stiffened when he looked up to see the Inquisitor strolling towards them in the center of a crowd. His head was bent down to the ear of a nearby woman, really more a girl, and whatever he was saying had her nearly doubled up in laughter.

Dorian looked back to the chess board, summoning his usual sanguinity and calculating the odds that the jokes were about him.

"Inquisitor," said Cullen, half-rising. "Was there something you needed?"

Maxwell waved him down. "Stand down. I only came to watch two masters of the game at work." He added to his entourage, "The best part with these players is that you don't have to know anything about chess to appreciate the show."

Murmurs of agreement and light laughter washed over them, and Dorian met Maxwell's eyes when Cullen stared down miserably. Their green depths were were challenging, and Dorian wondered what he was thinking, showering his Commander with the shrapnel of their own private war.

He tipped his king over lightly. "Unfortunately Cullen is much better at strategy than I am. I'm purely a beauty. He's wisely used his time to cultivate brains," he said. He deliberately ignored the disappointed crowd and held his hand across the table. "Good match, Commander. Thank you for indulging me."

"Thank you," said Cullen, and his eyes showed the fervent truth of his words as he shook. He stood and added, "I'd like a rematch while you're here. Perhaps with fewer distractions?"

Dorian smiled tightly and cut a look back at Maxwell. "Yes, it's often hard to be at one's best in a world that disrespects our time."

Too late he remembered that he was trying to mend fences, not light them on fire, but fortunately he only said, "Would it be disrespectful to ask for a match, then, Ambassador?"

"I'd be delighted," Dorian answered, moving his eyes slightly towards their audience.

Maxwell was already turning to them with an easy smile. "My apologies to you all, but I would be ashamed to bore you all with my play. In chess, I'm always outclassed."

He overrode their protests skillfully, and the group wandered away chattering amongst themselves. The Inquisitor turned back to the table, and Dorian was shocked at the exhausted lines of his face. Maxwell chuckled when the green of healing magic rose between them. "I'm fine. Thank you. Just the usual marriage-seekers. They've been unusually persistent lately."

"Have you been running too fast, or not fast enough?" asked Dorian. Best to pretend that things were entirely normal between them, he supposed.

"Both, it seems," said Maxwell, closing his eyes briefly. He turned to Cullen with an expression as close to apology as he ever wore and added, "There's a patrol going out for training exercises today. Cassandra told me this morning that she's confident in their physical abilities, but I'm worried about their mental strength in the face of magic. Her skills make her instructions more vague on that point. You're the best we have against hostile mages. I'd like you to go with them."

"Me?" said Cullen. "I haven't done individual training in months."

"I'm sure you'll remember how once you're out there. Though you may be gone long enough that you'll miss the formal dinner tonight. I'm sorry about that."

The three of them all covered their grins poorly, and Cullen finally saluted. "As you require, Inquisitor."

Maxwell watched him walk away before settling into the vacant chair and reaching for his pieces. His eyes lifted gently, and Dorian's heart stuttered when they met his own with an unmistakable gleam. "Shall we?"

* * *

The first few minutes of the match were Maxwell desperately trying to pretend that he'd played this game at all in the last two years. Once Dorian left, he'd lost all interest in it, and he didn't expect to come close to winning, but it would be nice not to completely embarrass himself.

And it wasn't clear if Dorian was fooled by his performance or not. His expression as he watched the moves was imperturbable as always. The mage looked perfectly put together, as calm as a man having high tea. As calm as a man who hadn't had an argument of any kind in too long to remember. As calm as a man who knew he had the upper hand in any conversation he would ever have.

As if he'd heard him, Dorian looked up with a knowing smile. "Still working with the standard openings?"

"A too-complicated snare traps the hunter just as often as the prey," said Maxwell loftily.

"Says the man who turned the Winter Palace on its head before the first guests could pass out in the shrubbery."

"Nobles are easy. This is chess," he answered. _All nobles except for Dorian Pavus, at least_ , he added to himself.

A small tongue of jealous fire was still dancing in his belly from watching him flirt with Cullen over the board. Maxwell had left his morning audience session with a splitting headache and an eager crowd he couldn't shake, and at first when he'd entered the garden and seen Dorian he'd though the Maker had finally started answering His Herald's prayers again. But of course the mage hadn't been waiting for him. Instead he'd been smiling very intimately, not to mention suggestively, at the handsome man across from him.

It didn't matter that Cullen was as straight as they came, and, even if he weren't, someone as forward as Dorian would terrify him away before the first kiss. Watching that easy charm burned, all the more because it was the same, familiar message that Maxwell seemed incapable of hearing.

He'd barely slept the night before, the sound of that pointed question about the things the Inquisitor couldn't have ringing in his ears. Dorian had meant himself, obviously. Not all of him, of course. Maxwell could have his smiles, his flirtations, and possibly even his body if he wanted it. But the core of Dorian was for no one but himself, and, just like everything else, his exits from the bed were mapped in advance. His heart would never be touched.

 _You thought I was hurt? You thought I cared? Just try to catch me, Inquisitor._

Never once in all of his history had Maxwell enjoyed a chase. He didn't like it now either. But if he had no choice but to follow the overwhelming temptation in front of him, he'd win. Whatever winning meant when it came to this man. And, as a bonus, Josephine wouldn't kill him for alienating the only effective Tevinter ambassador they were likely to get.

"Thank you for agreeing to play," said Maxwell suddenly, aware the silence was stretching too far for comfort.

"I should be the one thanking you," said Dorian. Just as Maxwell feared they were entering a spiral of polite self-effacement that would have no escape but death, the mage smiled softly. "Playing here, in this garden, was one of the few true pleasures the war afforded me. I'm glad to be back again."

Maxwell reached out and touched Dorian's hand, following some internal instinct he hoped wasn't false. "I'm glad you're here, too. More glad than I acted last night. I apo -"

He didn't get the words out before Dorian said, "No," with a speed that seemed to surprise even him. His face was serious, but there were lights in his eyes. "You've never been one to apologize for things you don't regret, Inquisitor. Words or deeds. I'd hate for you to start on my account."

It was such a bitter observation that Maxwell was a little taken aback, but he nodded. It wasn't as though it was wrong.

"Besides," Dorian continued a little more gently, "between friends the best apologies are never spoken aloud."

So he wanted to simply ignore Maxwell's bad manners and condemnations. Reset the board, as it were, though that was a precarious bridge to build between them at best. Besides, Maxwell did regret his behavior, at least in part. Mostly in the part where he'd gone to bed alone, aching and unsatisfied. But he understood the gesture Dorian was making, and he wouldn't chance it. Not if reconciliation was within reach.

But not if he pushed too hard. He sat back and separated their space again. "Did Felix teach you that?" he asked, just for something to say.

Dorian laughed. "Felix's greatest talent was never allowing someone to think he'd done anything that needed an apology. He was wonderful at escaping from trouble, especially whatever trouble he'd earned."

"But you remained friends. Which means he did apologize silently, somehow."

"I suppose so," said Dorian thoughtfully. His eyes were very far away, ranging back in time, and under the soft light of the morning he seemed to glow from whatever internal happiness he'd found in his memories. Maxwell's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. The mage had never looked quite so beautiful, even if he was thinking of another man. "I never thought about it like that."

"I'll have to come up with my own way to do the same, then," said Maxwell.

On cue, Dorian's flirtatious mask fell back into place. "I have no doubt you'll be very inventive," he said. "I look forward to the attempts. Checkmate."

Maxwell looked down at the board and realized he hadn't really seen it in the last ten minutes, even when he was moving pieces. He swore under his breath, then glared when Dorian chuckled. "Shut up."

"It's so rare to see you at a loss. It's unfair to expect me not to enjoy it."

When Maxwell shook his head and moved to push back from the table, Dorian leaned forward. "I'd like to suggest something new," he said. Maxwell arched a careful eyebrow and smirked, but Dorian never lost his composure. "This time we talk through each move before you make it. A working session, rather than a true match."

"So you'll tutor me, like a child?"

Dorian smiled. "Like a man who's re-learning a rusted skill. Fear not, Inquisitor. None of us will ever forget that you're fully grown."

"If you do, I have plenty of ways to remind you," said Maxwell in a low voice, and he was gratified to see Dorian's breath hitch. Just a little. Enough to know that he wasn't entirely out of reach.

But this was no place for more, and he replaced his pieces with a steady hand then looked at Dorian expectantly.

"Lesson one," said the mage in the attitude of a stuffy governess, and Maxwell laughed. Dorian threw him a cutting look. "Silence during the lectures, please. Lesson one. Not every objective in front of you should be taken immediately."

Maxwell raised his hand high, and Dorian's face broke into a slight grin as he called on him. "Excuse me, Serah Pavus," said Maxwell breathlessly, "but isn't it best to clear the field in front of you?"

"Spoken like a warrior, always hacking away at the nearest thing. If you always take the first opening you see, you may cause the closure of all the rest."

He must have looked confused, because Dorian swiftly rearranged the pieces. "Assume it's your opportunity to move. What do you see here?"

"Your rook is exposed," said Maxwell, still in the attitude of eager student. "I can take it!"

"Yes. You can. But if you do, I can simply counter here and gain more ground back than I lost. Whereas if you sidestep the obvious lure, you allow me the illusion of control, and the true prize can be won in the next move," said Dorian. "It's not unlike a conversation on the dance floor, with constant jockeying for better position."

Maxwell frowned, no longer acting. A battlefield and a ballroom had little in common, tactics-wise. "But what if you do something that blocks my path? Then I'll have gained nothing at all."

"Sufficient planning can ensure that won't happen," said Dorian. "Always leave yourself another move to make."

 _So that's where you get it,_ thought Maxwell sourly. "Okay. What's lesson two?"

The sun marched across the sky as they worked through a slow match, and when Maxwell finally made a two-step move that worked, he grinned across the board. "I know you let me do that, but I don't care."

"The best instructors always give their students a treat at the end of class," said Dorian. He looked up and frowned. "But I've taken up far too much of your time. Forgive me."

"I enjoyed every minute," said Maxwell, and he didn't even have to reach for sincerity. "But next time you'll have to join me in the fighting ring, just so I can beat you at something."

"I have no doubt you've picked this up far more quickly than I would pick up sword work. You have a head for subtlety, when you choose to use it," said Dorian with a teasing smile. "And my failures would leave me dead instead of merely defeated. Still, I appreciate the invitation."

They stared at each other for a long moment, waiting, though Maxwell couldn't have said for what. He was about to ask him to raid the kitchens, not wanting whatever was building between them to collapse, but a sharp giggle nearby broke their silence.

Dorian's mustache twitched. "I meant to ask, how many of those enterprising suitors have a monogrammed handkerchief up their sleeves?"

"All of them," said Maxwell. "It's the cheapest personal item I could come up with to give away."

"I always did appreciate a cheap flirt."

"Maxwell Trevelyan!" said an annoyed voice over the courtyard, and he looked up to see Josephine bearing down on them. "You are supposed to be in my office negotiating with the Tevinter representative."

Maxwell looked sidelong at his companion, but it seemed like this was no time for logic from the fire in his chief diplomat's eyes. "I'm sorry, Josie," he said, settling his face into a truly stricken look, and he heard Dorian smother a laugh. "I'll be right there."

"Don't Josie me, Inquisitor," she said. "You've already sent Cullen off to Maker knows where just when we needed him to meet an Orlesian general." She turned to Dorian with a winning smile and a completely new persona and added, "We would be pleased to see you whenever you're ready, Ambassador Pavus."

"What?" yelped Maxwell with mock indignation, warming to the familiar camaraderie that was gathering among them all. And warming even more to the broad, unfettered smile on Dorian's face. "I protest this backwards favoritism. You're supposed to adore me, not him."

"Don't worry, Inquisitor." Dorian reached out to pick up the pieces of their game with his teasing smile still firmly in place. "I'll put in a good word for you with your diplomatic corps."


	5. Dispel

"What can the Inquisition do for the Imperium, Ambassador Pavus?" asked Josephine later. She, Leliana, Maxwell and Dorian were arrayed very officially in her office, along with various scribblers, and Maxwell, for once, was enjoying a diplomatic meeting. Partly because Dorian seemed just as interested in repairing what had broken between them the night before, but mostly because he looked sinfully handsome lounging in a wing-backed chair in his tight-fitting, not-completely-there red leathers.

"Right now, a drink would be most welcome," said Dorian with a half-smile.

Neither woman blinked. "Of course," said Josephine. "And beyond that request?"

"It's more what the Inquisition can avoid doing. Namely, starting a war." He waved his hand airily at Leliana's snort. "A new war."

"Forces have been massing at the border of Orlais for months," said Leliana. "Your forces. And you claim Tevinter wants no war?"

"If the Magisterium were prone to admitting their fears, they would say that they're terrified of you," said Dorian. "Can you blame them? You have the armed strength of a small country with none of the oversight. While I've tried to emphasize your warm, cuddly natures, it's been difficult to do when your daggers keep finding so many targets in the heart of Minrathous." He leaned forward. "And if Cullen were here, he could lie very unconvincingly about the number of Templar forces you've been training at _your_ Chantry's directive."

"The true Chantry belongs to everyone," said Leliana.

A servant handed Dorian a glass that he barely seemed to notice. "My dear Nightingale, I quite agree. After all, you have a mage on the Sunburst Throne now. A very ambitious mage. I feel more at home in your chapel than I ever have, even if this Divine's anatomy is a little softer than I'm used to."

Maxwell wondered if Dorian knew how much Leliana hated that Vivienne had been selected as Divine over her. Likely not. Dorian was an irritant, but he wasn't suicidal. Thankfully, Leliana didn't even twitch.

"Nevertheless," he continued, "the mages who returned to the Imperium brought their dark tales of Templar monsters in the south, who could snuff away the holiness of the Fade with a single word. It hasn't helped."

"And why did you not stop these rumors?" asked Leliana. "I thought your entire purpose in returning was to help our cause. You've done precious little of that."

Dorian crossed his legs and stroked his mustache, though Maxwell saw the slight shake of his fingers as he did. "You of all people should know how difficult it is to stop a falsehood, much less a truth. Your Templars can do all they claim and more. I've watched Cassandra drop a mage into a sobbing heap from twenty paces with a flick of her hand. It didn't exactly make me sleep peacefully. So what exactly would you suggest I do to soothe them when the monsters are already in the wardrobe?"

"This arguing over rumor gains us nothing," said Josephine firmly. "The words of the past are behind us. We need to think to the future. And if the Imperium wants peace, we wish to meet them in friendship."

"Yes, but how?" asked Maxwell, and the Antivan gave him a forbidding look. He ignored it. "No, I mean it. Unless they've suddenly turned into a nation of Dorians, I can't imagine the friendship would be anything but false on both sides. We can't trust them. They won't trust us."

"Inquisitor!" hissed Josephine as the scribbling around them suddenly stopped. "This is an official diplomatic visit, not some argument around a campfire."

"I thought we were looking for solutions! Dorian is the best hope we've ever had to find one. Sometimes pretty words are necessary, but this is no time for platitudes that look good on parchment."

Josephine glared at him without losing her pleasant smile, but Maxwell could feel his stubbornness rising like the tide. "Leave," he said to the clerks around them and dared his ambassador to overrule him. She didn't, and there was only silence once the four them were left alone.

Dorian broke it delicately. "I think all of the Inquisition's speeches are exquisite, of course. Very pretty. But I agree that the probability of getting everyone to hold hands and become dear friends is as remote as expecting Iron Bull to bathe regularly. I also think this war has already begun. The swords will be mere afterthought."

"What do you mean?" asked Leliana.

"Let's just say that my arrival was not exactly greeted with joyful shouts and a warm hug."

Maxwell put a carefully neutral expression on his face as he settled back, and Dorian shook his head. "Not that," he said, his voice pitched slightly lower as he shook his head. He raised it again and looked at Josephine. "I mean officially. It's obvious to me that the Imperium is your unifying enemy. The specter that keeps you all marching. I wonder if the Inquisition would survive a cessation of hostilities?"

"We're an organization of peace," said Josephine.

Dorian's placid expression finally changed to irritation. "Spare me the induction speech. The Inquisition has always been an organization of war. An insurgency that succeeded beyond even Cassandra's wildest fantasies. And that's no complaint. Thedas sorely needed it. It's why I stayed," he said. "But you're helmed by a man who handles even diplomacy like it's the edge of a blade, and he handles blades as though they're the extension of his hands. The afternoon entertainments are bouts of strength, there are more troop schedules than books, and the inner circle is, for the most part, prone to seeing enemies in every shadow."

He looked at Maxwell a little sadly. "The Inquisitor is exactly the man you needed to keep this from falling apart, and you were blessed to find him. But an organization takes its tone from its heights, and you have a very physical leader."

"The Imperium wants me to step down?" asked Maxwell incredulously.

Dorian blinked and looked at his lap, as though remembering where he was. "No. Forgive me. I'm not used to speaking for an entire country."

"So you want me to step down."

"I don't -" said Dorian, then sighed. "Since I've arrived, it's been very clear that, much as the Templars are the Imperium's boogeymen, Tevinters are yours. I was placed under guard immediately, I've been told of the deep-seated belief that an Imperial face is by necessity an enemy's, and the tension in your soldiers whenever I'm within fireball distance of the Inquisitor would be very amusing if it weren't so threatening to my continued survival.

"You still train against hostile mages, and unless the Qunari have suddenly upped their magical talents, there's only one reason why that would be. The specter of Tevinter madmen lurks behind me everywhere I go. And I'm someone you ostensibly like. Or did, anyway," he added with a wry smile. "It's little wonder our other ambassadors made so few inroads with you."

"They were also absolutely worthless," said Maxwell.

"What the Inquisitor means to say," Josephine began quickly, but Dorian waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't worry, I won't tattle on the Inquisitor to Tevinter. I don't even disagree, not regarding the ones I knew at least. But even had they been effective, what possible path could they have taken to convince your people that there was nothing to fear? Would they have been allowed to succeed?"

Leliana shifted and crossed her legs. "So you're saying that war is inevitable."

"The Imperium would wish me to deny that, but I do so detest lying," said Dorian. "There are too many parties who want it, including in your own ranks, and too many people who see no other future. Still, nothing is inevitable. If anyone can create a new miracle in our time, it's you." He looked at Maxwell as he said it, and the steady faith underneath the ever-present detachment was blinding.

Maxwell was used to belief. The pilgrims who came to see their newest holy icon were full to bursting with it, tearfully sincere and almost desperate in their need. It was a role he tried to live up to, if only to keep the purity of their faith intact. He remembered his mother's quiet prayers in the Chantry before she died, and he knew the beauty that devotion could bring to the world. But this was different. This was Dorian, a man who knew better than most the smoke and mirrors that was Maxwell's power, and yet he still had faith. In him.

As his heart skipped and wavered for the first time in years, Maxwell tried to keep the horror from his face. Maker save him, he wasn't only halfway in love with the man anymore, was he? Well that would be inconvenient if there was a war.

He cleared his throat. "We'll have to change the people's hearts, then," he said. "Our own people and the Imperium's. Remove the enmity."

Dorian smiled a little. "As easy as all that?"

"There's nothing we can't do, if we approach it correctly," said Maxwell. Even with the unresolved fight still echoing underneath them, the bridge was strengthening, and Dorian looked at least slightly more heartened as he nodded.

Maxwell turned to the ladies and added, "Josie, you're the master of delicate manipulation and outrageous propaganda. Where do we start?"

"Thank you, Inquisitor," she said dryly, but she indulged his mischievous grin all the same. "First, Dorian is right that the tone begins at the top. We'll need the nobility. But Sera is not wrong about the widespread power of the people, even if she doesn't fully understand what she means when she says it."

They kept talking, and Maxwell listened closely, but he kept one eye on the man in the next chair. His eyes were serious, no longer laughing, as he offered his own opinions and insights into the hierarchy of Tevinter and how it could be plied. Slowly, very slowly, the tension in the room solidified into something simpler, and Maxwell wondered how Dorian could ever think himself ineffective. The Inquisition needed him, here, like this.

And each time the other man drew his finger lightly along his jaw in an unconscious caress, Maxwell came up with more intimate plans to get him to stay.

* * *

Dorian was left to his own devices for the rest of the afternoon, and he had to laugh to himself at the lightness in his step as he headed back to the library. The stones of Skyhold must have soaked up the boundless optimism of its residents in the last years. Only a day, and he already felt as though anything were possible again. It was no wonder he'd run back home so confident in the future. The Inquisition was confidence given wings.

Because, of course, it took its attitude from the head.

Maxwell, that embodiment of self-belief, was off running the world once more for the day, but that was probably for the best. Dorian was feeling a little drunk, intoxicated by so much exposure to the Inquisitor. It wouldn't do to start thinking about the more pleasurable types of exposure again.

He wrenched his mind away from the broad shoulders he'd left behind and focused on the mystery that still burned in his pocket. Throughout the discussions and planning and debates, he'd argued with himself about whether he should tell them about the Comtesse. But what would he say? That she'd cornered him in the chapel with some vague reference to the Imperium and handed him a piece of blank parchment? The farther away he got from the episode, the less certain he was that it had been anything at all. She might have simply been trying to forge a very personal alliance with his country and failed utterly to find the right sort of contact.

And the last thing he needed was to give Leliana some reason to distrust him now. Not when he was finally making inroads in clearing the suspicion from those lovely eyes. The Nightingale was almost as feared in Tevinter as the Templars, and if he couldn't curb her more permanent solutions to problems, Tevinter would never agree to any kind of accord no matter how much they wanted to avoid war. True there was no direct proof that she'd killed all of the high-ranking and low-ranking dissidents over the years, but that had been more than proof enough. Even the Crows sometimes made mistakes.

An in the room he'd just left, though she'd spoken clearly and intelligently about their options, the spark of hostility had never fully died. He shouldn't have mocked the Chantry, he supposed, but the woman couldn't have it all her own way.

But that meant this was a situation that called for a surfeit of caution. Until he knew more, the safest route was to do nothing.

The library was once again mostly empty, and the young head of it sat crouched over a long table covered in scrolls. He looked so much like a scavenging bird perched above a dying animal that Dorian almost laughed. Instead he went to a shelf he rarely visited and thumbed through the volumes. When he reached the complete collection of _Swords and Shields_ , reluctantly provided by Varric and utterly dog-eared by Cassandra, he allowed himself a delicate shudder. Some people might have been better cared for had they never learned to read at all.

But at last he found a book of romantic poems that would produce only light burning instead of searing on Cullen's cheeks and took it over to the focused librarian. It took three coughs and a rap on the table to bring him out of his fugue, but when he saw Dorian he smiled broadly. "Good day. A literate visitor is always a welcome sight. I've been warned that you'll have the most difficult requests, and I've prepared myself accordingly. What can I provide?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint so soon, but I've already found what I needed," said Dorian, holding up the book between them. "I merely wanted to let you know I would be absconding with it."

The librarian tilted his head to the side and read the spine with a slight frown. "A book of… poems?" His eyes narrowed. "I would have thought you'd be looking for something a little more complex."

"Some poetry is more complex than magic itself," said Dorian. "Though in this case, I agree with you. But alas, needs are needs."

"I see," said the librarian. "Well, I have confidence you'll treat it well."

Dorian thought about explaining who it was truly for, but he supposed Cullen deserved a little anonymity. "Yes," he said. "By the way, I realized I've never gotten your name. Terribly rude of me."

"I prefer to be an anonymous scholar, actually. It saves people bothering me so much," the other man said. "Not that you're a bother. Even if you have no interesting requests for me today."

An apologetic farewell on his lips, Dorian suddenly thought better of it. "Actually, I may be able to make up for my original failure. Tell me, are there any works on cryptography here? Hidden signals, messages, codes? The subject was rather thin a few years ago, but I'm sure you've increased the stock amply since then."

The man looked a little surprised, but said, "I'm afraid not. It's not a subject that the experts of like to write about for obvious reasons."

Dorian nodded, a little disappointed, but the librarian added, "However, I myself am, if not an expert, at least a student of the art. The hazards of training in Antiva. They encode everything, including a simple thank you note. Can I help you in some way?"

He hesitated briefly, but after all what did he have but a blank page? Any information would be more useful than that. Dorian reached into his pocket and pulled out the parchment.

The other man stared at it, then frowned. "There's nothing on it."

"Yes, I'm aware. But a friend insisted that there was a message hidden in it, and I find myself at a complete loss. Any insight you could provide would be useful," said Dorian. A thought struck him, and he smiled suggestively. "There's quite a lot riding on this, if you take my meaning."

The librarian looked to the book of poems, to the parchment, and then back to Dorian. He sniffed a little, but there was a faint smile on his lips. "Understood, Altus Pavus. I'll certainly do what I can."

* * *

His next stop, after he dropped the book off in Cullen's office, was decidedly less quiet, but there was nothing for it. Shayla had spent every rest on their journey in the nearest kitchen. When he'd asked her why, she'd only said that she liked the noise. Sera was much the same, so perhaps it was an elf thing. Whatever it was, he could have done without the heat and the noise of Skyhold's main servant's hub.

On the other hand, he was absolutely famished, so at least he could kill two nugs with a single spell.

Shayla was laughing with the kitchen maids when he entered, looking happier than he'd ever seen her, and for a second he hung back, a little apprehensive of breaking her joy. His father, as much as he tried to force his own progeny into unnatural roles, did treat his slaves well, so Dorian wasn't concerned that her life had been only suffering. Not that the southerners would believe it. But happiness was rare enough for everyone, and she was always so serious. He couldn't help but feel, at least a little, that it was his family's fault.

When she saw him, she stiffened immediately and bowed. "Master Pavus," she said quickly. "Please, I'm so sorry. I'd finished my work, and I thought it would be fine to come down…"

The rest of the room was looking between them with expressions that weren't exactly hostile, but they were unfriendlier than he wanted. "No need for apologies," he said easily. He tried a smile and a wink. "You're at liberty to wander Skyhold all you like. I knew where to find you, didn't I?"

It was both the right and the wrong move. The right because the cook smiled in reply, clearly susceptible to charm. The wrong because Shayla, if anything, became even more subservient. "But you should never have had to look for me. My life is to serve you."

Maker's breath, this was going from bad to worse. "Your life is your own. I'm merely your employer," he said. A slight lie, of course, but for a good cause. "If this indomitable woman," he added, bowing to the cook, "can find something to nourish a weary dilettante, I'll be out in the courtyard when you're done with your friends."

Shayla frowned, but the rest of the room relaxed slightly, and he ended up with a delicious, and large, meal for his efforts. She didn't take as long as he would have liked to join him, and her expression was definitely the spitting image of the severe governess when she did, but he considered himself the victor.

"Master Pavus, I truly am sorry," she said when she reached his place against the wall.

"Think nothing of it. I've managed on my own for a very long time," he said. "And it's Dorian, remember?"

Her hands twisted in front of her, white where her fingers pressed the skin. "But I wish to be of value."

Dorian held up a hand quickly. "You are! You are. No one could be more indispensable to me," he said. "In fact, I have a task that only you can complete, if you're willing to do it."

"Of course, Ma- Dorian."

"Never accept a duty without reading the small print," said Dorian with a grin. "Nevertheless, I think you've already begun without knowing it. I'm hoping that, while we're here in Skyhold, you can assist me in my official duties. As an ambassador among the Inquisition's workers."

He sat back, quite pleased with his own initiative. Josephine had mostly been focused on the larger world of Thedas, but Dorian knew very well that the Inquisition itself would be just as difficult, if not moreso, to alter. And while he was well-positioned to delight all those skeptics in powerful positions, even his charisma wasn't equal to convincing the rest that the Imperium's lower classes weren't wallowing in pain. Not after his people had done such a good job of perpetuating the myth.

Shayla's woodland eyes widened, and she asked slowly, "What does that mean?"

"Nothing strenuous. Merely speaking to the servants, the stablehands, the messengers. Be yourself. Show them that Tevinter doesn't mean exploitation," he said. "As long as you don't mind, of course. It's entirely your decision. But as the only Tevinter citizens here, it would be nice to not be hated everywhere we go."

She opened her mouth, then frowned in thought. Dorian stayed silent, waiting for her choice. If he ordered her to do this, it would somewhat defeat the point.

Eventually she nodded, and he grinned broadly. "Excellent. Truly excellent. One other request," he added, gesturing to the small mountain of food spread on the cloth in front of him. "Help me finish this, to spare me the scorn of the kitchen staff."

* * *

The next few days passed uneventfully, depending on the definition of an event. No dragons attacked, no one new stepped forward to say they wanted to remake the world in their own image, and even the visitors had more compliments than complaints. A smoothing over of a land dispute with a Marcher noble, a new trade agreement with an Antivan merchant prince, and a few gently declined marriage proposals, and Maxwell left each morning's working session with a spring in his step and a new objective - the none-too-gentle seduction of Dorian Pavus, this time with his mind firmly three moves ahead.

It helped that he'd been able to successfully advance an agenda of improving the troop's opinions of Tevinters by continuing to be seen in the company of their ambassador. While the heavy-hitters of the Inquisition knew Dorian all-too-well, the rank and file had less than no idea who he was. And no wonder. Even the ones who'd been with the Inquisition during the war would have only seen the top of his head as he read some dusty tome in the atrium or the bulge of his bicep when he wandered back to his room. He'd barely even taken meals in the Hall, by the end. Elitist, Sera had said. Shy, said Varric. Escaped, knew Maxwell.

But he was making his presence felt now. By mutual agreement, Dorian spent time with the healers, lending his magical talents to curing what ailments he could. The Imperium had different illnesses, and different techniques, and the head medic pulled Maxwell aside once and fervently thanked him for the loan.

Privately, Dorian said there was less enthusiasm among the rest. "Nerves, resistance to change, fear I'll turn them all into demons," said Dorian. "The non-magic users are better. But even they make sure to give me only the patients who aren't currently bleeding. I suppose they think the temptation will be simply overwhelming."

"Do you want me to say something to them?" asked Maxwell. They were walking the battlements, staying low enough to be seen but high enough that their conversation couldn't be easily overheard by people in the courtyard. And the soldiers stationed as guards meant he was protected without it being obvious, which kept the captains happy.

"Absolutely not! It's enormous fun to watch their faces," said Dorian. "Just don't tell them I'm a necromancer. In the rare cases we lose a patient, I'd hate to have them ask me to bring them back."

He said it in a tone that was only half-joking, and Maxwell turned to study him. His bronzed skin should have looked washed out under the streaming moonlight, but instead it only made him look ethereal. Untouchable. Dangerously fey.

 _Focus, Max._ "Has that happened to you?"

"Grief isn't always rational."

When the silence stretched out, Dorian laughed lightly. "I give you permission to ask."

Maxwell stopped and folded his arms. "How do you know I even have a question?"

"Because people always do. It's the usual thing."

"I'm anything but usual," said Maxwell, frowning playfully.

Dorian had stopped as well, and he leaned against the low stone wall. "In your curiosities, you're as normal as the next dynast, I suspect," he said. His eyes sparkled wickedly as he added, "But yes, in other ways, I consider you truly exceptional."

"Good. Tell me more. It's been hours since I've been flattered and adored without reservation."

The mage shook his head, an insolent smile still lurking on his face. "It's bad for your ego to have it stroked so regularly."

He picked at the stone behind him with a long, smooth finger, and Maxwell followed the motion with his eyes as he stepped closer. "You're naturally rebellious, did you know that? So was Felix. Is this a Tevinter thing, or did I just get lucky?"

"You've been very lucky indeed. You've met the best the Imperium has to offer. And you met me."

Maxwell rolled his eyes. "Self-deprecation is expressly forbidden on my battlements. By writ of the Inquisitor."

Dorian smiled softly, then looked toward the tower that plunged into the center of the fortress like a knife. "Ask your question," he said.

"Can you bring people back to life?" asked Maxwell after a small pause. He'd never delved too closely into Dorian's abilities during the war. The man had kept himself and the rest of them alive, he'd done it with magic that Bull had described as "fucking creepy", and that had been all he'd needed to know. The inner workings of magic were beyond his concern, and they were all going to die anyway. But now that they were still alive, it was as good a time as any to learn.

"No," said Dorian. "I can make bodies move after death, and people who know little think that will be enough. But it's not the same. When you see someone's shadow, you don't think you've seen who they are. It's a similar idea. A footprint on the beach, a drawing of a flower. There's nothing left of the real thing."

They started walking again, and Maxwell looked out over the Frostbacks. "Why did you choose your specialization? Why necromancy?"

"That's too long of a story for this chilled mountain air," said Dorian, and Maxwell watched him roll himself up again like a scroll. Smooth, tight, and utterly unreadable.

Maxwell sighed. He knew that look. That would be the end of personal conversations for the night. Dorian shivered expressively, only a hint overdone, and bid him farewell at the top of the nearest stairway. But his ostentatiously subservient thank you for the walk was a little more yielding than usual. A little less aloof. At least, Maxwell prayed that was true as he watched the mage walk across the yard.

It wouldn't do to follow him in so quickly, not least because if Maxwell caught him he might press him against some darkened wall and test the mage's willingness to yield in earnest, so he kept walking. They'd finally finished repairing the last of the walls, and he trod over the relatively new stone eagerly. His feet were never happier than when they were walking on new ground, and there had been less and less of that as he traveled. To find it in Skyhold was almost impossible.

To his surprise, he saw Varric lurking in the shadow of a parapet, and Maxwell slowed, trying to figure out what the dwarf was doing. When Varric spotted the new intruder, he waved hugely with his finger over his lips, and Maxwell crept over and knelt in the same shadow.

"What's going on?" he breathed. "Something wrong? Spies? Assassins?" He should have known. It had been far too quiet around the place recently.

"Terrible flirting," whispered Varric, pointing around the corner.

Maxwell peered out and saw Cullen and Cassandra leaning over the crenellations in identical poses, arms crossed at the forearms and looking down at the lake below. His eyes widened in delight, and he grinned at the dwarf before he settled in for some very ungentlemanly eavesdropping.

"The moon is nice tonight," said Cullen. "Very… shiny."

Cassandra murmured agreement, then said, "Commander, I think the newest company still needs training against archers. They lack -"

But Maxwell would never find out what they lacked, because Cullen interrupted in a rush. "I read a poem about the moon today. Would you like to hear it?" His voice had risen a few pitches above his usual low rumble, and Maxwell bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Andraste's bosom," whispered Varric. "This is incredible. No one will believe it."

Maxwell hushed him and strained his ears to hear.

He needn't have bothered. In a loud voice, Cullen recited,

 _"Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,  
Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;  
Thy beauty makes me like the child  
That cries aloud to own thy light:  
The little child that lifts each arm  
To press thee to her bosom warm._

 _Though there are birds that sing this night_  
 _With thy white beams across their throats,_  
 _Let my deep silence speak for me_  
 _More than for them their sweetest notes:_  
 _Who worships thee till music fails,_  
 _Is greater than thy nightingales."_

Varric's face was red with the effort of holding in his laughter, and Maxwell was sure he would bite clean through his cheek. It was sweet, in a way, but the poor man sounded so uncomfortable. Less romantic, more pained. At a long silence, though, Maxwell began to wonder if it had worked so well that Cassandra had collapsed into her suitor's arms with fervent longing, and he peeked around the side of the wall once more.

Unfortunately for the Commander, the Seeker looked more stunned than amorous. "That is very lovely," she said eventually.

Varric pounded his fist, hard, on the wall in front of him, and Maxwell gripped the smaller man's hand inside his own to keep him still.

"You realize it is not about the moon, though," Cassandra continued. "It's about a woman, and the quiet longing another feels for her."

"I, ah, well, I had realized," Cullen began, but he didn't have a chance to finish.

"Yes, I think Leliana will like that very much."

The silence was perfect, until Varric said under his breath, "That settles it. Definitely no one will believe this."

"I'm not sure I understand," said Cullen, in the quiet voice of a man who'd taken a hard blow in the ring.

Cassandra sounded surprised as she said, "The Nightingale. It's very clever. She'll appreciate the effort of such a recitation at her nameday fete. Especially from you. You are not known for being artistic."

Cullen mumbled something in reply, and Maxwell suddenly felt guilty that he'd been enjoying so Cullen's humiliation. He tugged Varric away with effort and they both sneaked back down the stairs. Once they were in the Chantry garden, Varric glared at him. "It was just getting good."

"It wasn't. And I can't allow my Commander's pathetic love life to be strip mined for some terrible romance serial," said Maxwell.

"I told you, it's not a romance. _This Shit Is Weird_ is an epic adventure story. Any romance is purely incidental. And the Seeker keeps telling me she wants to be in it," said Varric. "At this rate she's going to get a lot of pages." The dwarf shook his head sadly. "The man even memorized a poem for her. I wonder where he got it."

Maxwell shrugged. "Who knows? Reading poetry is a waste of time, though. I know Cassandra likes it, but a woman's heart is always won in the kiss."

"I don't think I trust Curly with that either," said Varric. He grinned. "I'd ask if you were volunteering to demonstrate for them, but I think you're saving yourself up for someone a little more sparkly."

"Shut up."

"Ah yes, that famous Trevelyan repartee. I can see why you're so good at the Game."

"Shut up again."

Varric only crossed his arms. "So, when are you going to start kissing your way into that certain someone's heart? I've never seen you move this slowly before."

Maxwell glared and walked towards the door that lead back to the fortress.

"Come on! No hints? I'm just trying to make a living here." Varric's voice was full of businesslike interest, and Maxwell thought he heard the rustling of paper behind him.

"Here's a hint," said Maxwell as he touched the handle. "If I win that heart, it won't be through kissing."

* * *

 _A/N: The poem Cullen recites is called 'The Moon', by William Henry Davies._


	6. Bodyguard

The day of Leliana's fete, Maxwell stayed well away from the Great Hall. If this party was like all the others, the revelry would eventually spill throughout the fortress, but the epicenter of the blast would rest firmly on the largest room they had. Josephine had been up at dawn, polishing and decorating every person and object that wandered through, and the Inquisitor might lose a little of his gravitas if he ended up covered in blue lilies, no matter how sweet they smelled.

Instead he spent the early morning riding with a dozen guards, patrolling the area around Skyhold needlessly. Cullen's men had been sweeping the hills continuously for days, and any fennecs, much less bandits, had been eradicated long ago, but it was something to do. Besides, Maxwell knew he looked fantastic on a horse, and the bolstering effect of sighing ladies and attentive men couldn't be underestimated, particularly for a grievously wounded ego.

Maxwell snorted to himself as he groomed his bay back in the stables, and the horse turned with a quizzical look. "Don't give me that," he grumbled. "I bet your ladies never run away from you. Horses don't even play chess."

"They also don't, you know, talk," said a voice behind him, and he turned around to see Sera giving him a wary look. "You finally losing it?"

"If you mean my mind, you can't lose what you've never had," he answered with a grin.

She laughed, and he mentally patted himself on the back. Sera had been one of his more difficult diplomatic conquests, with her distaste for his innate nobility and his love of using it. He knew she thought he was still too big for his own good, but taking every opportunity to mock himself seemed to help without sacrificing much. Beyond his own pride.

Which was in lower supply than usual, he had to admit. Dorian was still implacable and uniformly charming, and Maxwell had finally been forced to admit he was making less than no progress in his plans to get the mage into a bed he wouldn't immediately bolt out of. As someone who could usually win his chosen partners without even trying, this was very annoying. His lack of ability to simply stop caring was even more annoying. Damn Dorian and his secret blood magic.

"Did you need something?" he asked as he resumed his rubdown. "This horse won't clean itself."

"Surprised you don't have your slaves doing that for you."

Maxwell's hand stuttered, but he didn't turn around. "We don't have slaves, Sera."

"Sure, now we don't. But once we're best friends with a bunch of Tevinter assholes, stuff might change, yeah?"

"Some things. Not that."

The sound of her bow tapping against the fence wasn't exactly reassuring. "What if your boyfriend wants it? People do a lot of stupid shit when their cocks are involved."

"A man of my years does not have _boyfriends_ ," he said in his most disdainful tones. He changed to his old, eager Chantry initiate voice as he finally finished with the horse. "The Herald of Andraste is a holy icon, free of all carnal desires."

"Pffft. You have more sex than the horned guy," she said, but her voice was a little less accusing. When he turned around, she was grinning wickedly. "Varric told me you found the thing in your dresser. Where the grease used to be."

He gave her a smile that felt more like a scowl. "I did. Please bring it back," he said. The ink had come as a very unpleasant surprise during a diplomatically suggested encounter with a visiting Nevarran dignitary. Fortunately, when it came to diplomacy, Maxwell had a very clever tongue.

She only shrugged, but before he could warm to the fight, Iron Bull came around the corner. "Hey Boss," he said. "Come to the training yard."

"Is something wrong?"

"Nah. Well, unless you count Josephine sending a shirt to my tent for tonight. Not gonna happen, by the way."

Maxwell nodded. "Understood. It wouldn't be a Nightingale party if you were clothed."

"Damn straight. Anyway. You. The yard. Come on," said Bull. "There's a surprise waiting."

* * *

There was no need for his guide to point out the surprise, as Dorian was lounging against the armory wall in a full set of leather armor, holding a sword as gingerly as an Orlesian duchess held a teacup.

As Bull yanked his suddenly resistant body forward, Maxwell tried to calm himself down. Dorian was laughing quietly with a soldier Maxwell didn't know, but the soldier seemed to be enjoying whatever jokes the mage was telling him. And who wouldn't? By the familiar tilt of Dorian's head, he was definitely telling dirty ones.

But when Dorian saw the two warriors approaching, he stopped talking and threw them a crisp salute. Fortunately it was with his empty hand, even if it meant his salute was backwards. "Private Pavus reporting for training," he said brightly.

The soldier behind him sidled away at Maxwell's pointed look. Smart man. He'd probably make captain some day.

With that taken care of, Maxwell looked back at Dorian and swallowed heavily. Maker, he looked amazing. It wasn't that Dorian was thin, because no man with a body like that could be considered anything but solid muscle, but he'd never been powerful. He'd always looked like a mage.

But now he looked like a soldier. A very hot soldier. Maxwell's eyes wandered over the bulky chest plate that emphasized the cut body beneath it, then followed all the way to the skintight blue leggings with glinting metal greaves over top of them. He'd obviously dressed himself, because there was no way a page would have left the gap that was drawing Maxwell's gaze exactly to the wrong place.

Dorian smiled at his undisguised interest and spun in a full circle, ending with a flourish. "Well? Do I look the part?"

There was no good answer to that. His ass looked even better than the rest of him, but that wasn't exactly something Maxwell could say aloud.

"Yeah, if your grip wasn't so shit," said Bull, chuckling. He moved to Dorian's side, then swung around behind him and adjusted his hand until it had some semblance of a useful grasp on his weapon.

Dorian smiled at the mountain of muscle pressing against him, and Maxwell bit back a new surge of jealousy. He could hardly blame him for enjoying it. Maxwell knew how good it felt to have that bulk so close. From experience. But somehow watching Bull show someone else that fact was very annoying. At least when that someone was a pleased-looking, gorgeous, untouchable man that Maxwell had so irritatingly fallen for.

"Thank you, Bull," said Dorian, in a voice that was more purr than speech. "I appreciate the personal instruction."

Maxwell shifted, and Bull shot him an amused look over the top of the mage's head. He folded his arms and forcibly centered himself. The Inquisitor didn't fight over who got to manhandle someone in public. "Glad you're comfortable with him, because it's going to be a long afternoon. Bull, teach him the basics."

The qunari only looked more amused at the command, but Dorian's eyes snapped back to Maxwell. "Him? He'll kill me!" said Dorian. "He's an absolute savage."

"Hell yeah I am," said Bull. He winked at his new charge, who'd twisted inside of Bull's arms to glare at him. "And not just in bed."

"Charming," said Dorian. "If you'll recall, I'm not interested in that either."

Bull had actually propositioned Dorian? Of course he had. And Bull's knowing grin said that it had been a recent request, too. It was very good they were already in the training yard, because Maxwell was absolutely dying to hit someone. "You'll live. If you can fend off Bull, you can fend off anyone," he said, hoping his voice sounded calmer than he felt.

Dorian disentangled himself from the still-draped qunari and stepped closer. "Maxwell," he said. "Not to challenge the perfection of your Inquisitorial orders, but I came here at your invitation. Not his."

A good, diplomatic answer would be that it would hardly suit their new plan of friendship for the world to see Maxwell beating an overmatched Dorian into the ground. Or that his suggested pairing would remind the Inquisitions that the Tevinters held off the Qunari threat from the rest of them. And another would be that it would only enhance an eventual bout if Dorian could actually swing a sword in the correct direction first.

But what satisfaction would there be in giving a careful answer? "I can't afford to waste my time with training partners who won't challenge me," said Maxwell.

"I see," said Dorian. There wasn't even a flicker of response in the eyes that studied him. "Perhaps another time, then. Bull, I submit myself to your tender mercies. Please remember that I'm a delicate beauty. No strikes to the face. Or the arms. Or any other part of my flawless anatomy."

Bull rolled his eyes. "You mages really don't grasp the concept of sparring, do you? Come on, Vint, let's ugly you up a little."

They wandered away, still arguing, and Maxwell watched them begin the warm-up drill before he grabbed de Chevin for his own partner. The Chevalier treated every bout like life and death, and right now that attitude suited Maxwell down to the ground.

* * *

An hour later he was dripping with sweat but nowhere near settled. Dorian had given up long ago, not that Maxwell had been watching, and he'd changed into his usual revealing attire and was holding court in a corner of the yard. A ring of admirers and volunteer instructors surrounded him, and they were all watching Maxwell fight and pointing out the techniques and tricks that he used. Bull wasn't one of them, though. He'd come over to bellow criticism directly at his superior instead.

"Keep your arms up," Bull yelled. "Sloppy guard like that, a drunk kid could gut you."

Maxwell blinked the salty sting away from his eyes and yelled back without turning, "You don't guard at all, you asshole."

"Nope. Don't need to. I kill 'em too fast to bother. But you're slow and soft," said Bull matter-of-factly. The one thing that could be said about his instructional style was that he only said things like that when they were absolutely true. "Come on, Boss. You won't kill a dragon that way."

Maxwell redoubled his efforts, even more determined to beat his foul mood away. But eventually, when his arms were trembling with the strain of holding his sword, he had to raise his hand to end the match. There was a time when dedication began to look like desperation, and too many people were watching. His latest opponent, a slight but strong woman who'd obviously been nobly trained, bowed and left without a word, though she spared a smile for Bull when he complimented her form.

"No words of encouragement for me?" asked Maxwell as he took the water skin the qunari handed him. It wasn't a joke.

"Nah, you don't need them. You've got enough people filling your head with that shit," said Bull. "You know you're good. But you won't get any better if that's all you hear." He turned to leave, then paused. "And you might want to apologize to the Vint."

"For what?" Not that he didn't know. Bull didn't dignify the question with a response, and Maxwell scowled. "You started it."

The bigger man laughed, then raised his eyebrows when Maxwell didn't join him. "You're serious? Hell, I just did that see, exactly, how deep the shit is that you're standing in. And I'd say you're about up to your ears in it."

"So that's why you asked Dorian to fuck you? To test him, too?"

Maxwell regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. He shook his head to clear it. He had to pull himself together before this party started or he was going to start a few wars.

That resolution got more difficult when Bull only grinned. "Nope. That was because he's hot, and he's begging for a good lay." He shrugged. "Doesn't mean it has to be me, though. Especially now. I've got dainty Orlesian beauties to play with tonight."

Bull didn't wait for a response before he left to talk to Krem, and Maxwell unbuckled his armor as he moved towards the armory and its blessed privacy. He'd been stared at enough for now, and fortunately everyone knew he liked to end his sparring alone. He also didn't like anyone else to touch his armor and weapons but him. A leftover habit from his Templar training, he supposed, when the older initiates would swap out weapons for weighted versions or armor for pieces that would break under a blow. Whatever it was, everyone in the Inquisition respected his wishes.

Which was why it came as a shock when Dorian appeared in front of him and casually drew his sword out of the sheath. "Nice blade," he said.

Maxwell raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I assume, anyway," Dorian admitted with a smile. "You are the revered leader. They likely don't send you out with last year's sword strapped to your hip." The smile disappeared as he ran a finger over the gilded edge of the hilt. "I should have asked before I simply showed up. I apologize, Inquisitor."

That caress to his weapon was doing very bad things to him, and Maxwell tore his eyes away with effort. He supposed it was sweet that Dorian had taken him up on his offer, given how obviously uncomfortable he was with physical fighting. "It's fine. I hope the time with Bull was instructive, at least. And not too painful."

Dorian chuckled. "Yes. He was surprisingly gentle. I may have to revise my opinion of savages."

Maxwell said nothing, and Dorian looked at him questioningly before his mask settled into place again. "I think I learned more from watching you, though. While the words of your fervent admirers are always suspect, they were unceasing in their praise of your sword work," he said. "Apparently you're even better than I realized. Did you pick it all up saving the world?"

"And with the Templars," said Maxwell. "Before the Chantry decided I was too quick-tongued to waste as a mage guard and put me into the scholars robes."

"They were going to make you a scholar?" asked Dorian.

The laughter in his voice burned. "I'm not an idiot, you know," said Maxwell. He grabbed his sword back and pushed past the mage into the welcome dark of the armory.

He'd assumed Dorian would wait outside with everyone else, but instead he followed him all the way to the always-locked cabinet where he stored his gear. "Of course you aren't," said Dorian. "No idiot could run something like the Inquisition, at least not successfully. But scholars usually lead such… sedentary lives. It's difficult to imagine you sitting so still without chains involved."

"Well, I wasn't very good at that part of it," Maxwell admitted as he hung up his sword. "I was going to be a more public representative of the Chantry."

"Better that things turned out as they did, then, isn't it?"

"Yep, I did always dream of being the only survivor of a cataclysmic attack on Thedas and waking up with ancient magic permanently etched on my hand," said Maxwell. He'd tried for humor, but even he could hear the bitterness in his voice. He'd made the best of what he'd been given. He always did. But sometimes he envied Scholar Trevelyan his easy Chantry life. It hadn't been grand enough, at the time, but in some ways he'd been much happier.

But Dorian couldn't hear those thoughts, and he only sighed. "I seem to have lost my usual golden tongue today," he said. "I'll leave before the hole I'm digging swallows us both."

Maxwell spun and grabbed his arm before he could turn away. "I'm glad you came," he said. "I'm glad you watched."

And that brought a crooked smile back to that delicious mouth. "I know. You like to be watched."

The words were innocent enough, but the memories that they conjured were anything but innocent. Dorian's dark, hungry expression, a studied contrast to the soft light of the evening, as he'd reached past the trousers he'd neatly untied. The way he'd devoured Maxwell's moans when his fingers grazed him more tenderly than Maxwell would have ever believed possible. How he'd asked the Inquisitor to show him what he liked best, with his fingers lightly resting on Maxwell's trembling thighs. Always watching and wanting, even when Maxwell pulled him in for kiss after kiss after burning kiss while he stroked himself for Dorian's pleasure. He'd watched up until the last moment, where Maxwell had spilled over their joined hands and lost himself in those focused, demanding eyes.

"I like it when it's you," said Maxwell in a low voice, releasing the arm that suddenly felt like fire under his fingers. He turned back before he could do anything more forward. Rough, fevered sex in a corner of the armory might have slaked his immediate needs, but it would be like taking the rook in front of him and closing off every other opportunity. And there were far too many doors for Dorian to slip out of.

But when he didn't hear movement, when he could swear he felt the man's soft breath on the back of his neck again, asking how bad he wanted to be, he gave in to a single temptation. Off with the armor, slow and gentle. He flexed his muscles as he lifted it, piece by piece, and hung it deliberately without breaking rhythm. The armor should be properly cleaned, and it would be, but not yet. When he was down to his thin practice clothing once more, he turned around and crossed his arms to tug his sweat-soaked tunic over his head. He made sure not to look at Dorian. Not even acknowledge his presence.

After he'd finally freed himself from the confines of his shirt, he twisted around to grab the last of his water and poured it over himself. The armorers would complain about the stain on the floor, but Maxwell couldn't care about that now. All he could care about was that he could feel Dorian, staring, hotter than the sun, and that he'd wanted him for far, far too long. Besides, this was the part of the seduction he'd always loved the best.

Maxwell pulled a hand through his wet hair and tilted his head back, just a little, until he was sure he heard Dorian stop breathing. He opened his eyes with a light grin. "Are you still here?"

Instead of the stunned and slightly fearful longing he'd been expecting, Dorian had his arms crossed, his weight leaning on his back foot and his head tilted just so. "Of course. What is a man without his audience?" he said. His face was relaxed, open, and utterly unmoved beyond the smirk playing on his lips. "It's terribly rude to leave before the show is over."

To his horror, Maxwell felt his cheeks burning, and he spun back to the cabinet before they could betray him. He'd forgotten, again, how good Dorian was at all of this. A display of flesh that would excite or fluster some lesser creature would only amuse him. He was all cool detachment, the right smile in the right moment, rushing innuendos in the quiet spaces, tricking his opponent into revealing more of himself than he ever would. And Maxwell certainly felt very exposed.

He grabbed another shirt at random, pulling it on as quickly as he could without looking back. If he didn't, Dorian would probably wait there all day. Unlike the rest of the world, Dorian had never had any problem with blatantly appreciating his holy body. Tevinter didn't worship Andraste. And Dorian didn't worship Maxwell.

Neither did Bull, and because of that, he'd been the only partner Maxwell had been able to tolerate for a very long time. And because the qunari could speak Tevene, of course.

He'd so successfully wrapped himself inside thoughts of the qunari that he almost jumped when Dorian coughed. The smile in his voice was evident as he said, "And you have the gratitude of a decidedly non-humble nation for allowing me to watch. I'll see you tonight, Inquisitor."

When the door clicked closed behind him, Maxwell leaned his burning forehead against the metal of his armor and breathed slowly until he was himself once more.

* * *

Dorian had been far too nobly reared to debase himself by running back to his quarters, but it was as near a thing as he could manage. When he slipped inside and saw Shayla was nowhere to be found, he locked the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

By the Black Divine, Maxwell was trying to kill him.

Even the man's name whispering across his mind was enough to have him whimpering. Bad enough to listen to Bull's suggestive remarks about Maxwell's prowess with a weapon for half an hour straight. Bad enough that he'd changed out of his own armor with shaking, fumbling fingers, desperate to see Maxwell's physicality on display once more. Bad enough to be so unable to keep his eyes off of the dueling warrior that he'd had to pretend he cared about proper sword work. Bad enough that he'd been so nervous, and so unbelievably aroused, that he'd hardly been able to form a coherent sentence once they'd spoken.

But of course, it hadn't ended there. He'd followed Maxwell, like a lost, pathetic pup, only to be rewarded and cursed with an impromptu striptease. Without being able to do a damn thing about it.

The worst was that Maxwell had done it without any fanfare or embarrassment, like he did it every day for whomever his chosen audience was. And why should he be embarrassed? He knew how good he looked. He always did, and Dorian might have been flattered to be afforded the sight so many others had seen if it hadn't pushed him past the outer limits of his rapidly shrinking control.

All those moments of walking the battlements, of conversing over dinner, of chess, of discussing themselves and the Inquisition and the Imperium, and Maxwell hadn't even so much as touched his shoulder again. Dorian was ready to beg for one of those ridiculous handkerchiefs if it meant he could brush their fingers together in the transfer. The Inquisitor touched everyone, constantly. Kisses across knuckles, arms around shoulders, even elbows in the gut. He was a very tactile person. With everyone but Dorian, anyway.

When Maxwell had finally, _finally_ grabbed his arm he'd lost it completely. His grip was tight, rough, and so very masculine. Dorian barely remembered what he'd said, something banal most likely, but it had been enough to earn him his show, and now his mind was full of a hard, half-bare body, even more toned than he'd remembered. The water running over it had found every ridge and valley, and battlefield thirst had nothing to do with how much he'd wanted to follow its every trail with his mouth.

When he closed his eyes and fought for calm, he only saw the delicious lines of muscle that disappeared beneath fitted, black-as-night leggings.

The Inquisitor looked dangerous in black.

He'd been wearing black the afternoon Dorian had finally decided to take his chance. To hope that the constant, inventive flirting could be more. That Maxwell might feel even a portion of the connection that Dorian could no longer deny to himself. The approach had started black, too, the black of terror, of an unknown cavern that could hold anything. His heart had pounded in the Inquisitor's rooms, a place he'd never been. He'd never dared risk it.

But after the black was past, the rest was a riot of color, of red desire and blue comfort, and the purple of his magic running across skin that never seemed to cool. The white of completion, the never-ending wave of pleasure that Maxwell had wrung out of him over hours, soft and hard in turns. And always, always the green of Maxwell's eyes, vibrant and mesmerizing.

"Talk to me, Dorian," he'd whispered when Dorian had begged to be taken. His lips had been close to Dorian's ear, and the little puffs of air as he'd spoken had been terrifyingly erotic. "I want to hear that sinful voice. Tell me how you feel."

As though there had been words. As though there ever would be, for how he'd felt in that moment when Maxwell was pressing against his back, when he'd been in the circle of the man's arms at last, feeling exactly how much Maxwell wanted him. And still it hadn't been enough.

"I feel empty," he'd said, then hissed in vexation at the too-revealing word.

But Maxwell had only chuckled, a deep vibration that had Dorian groaning into the mattress. "You won't be for long, my gorgeous mage. I promise you that," he'd said. His teeth had caught on Dorian's earlobe, tugging just once before he'd released him again. "Tell me what this big, strong warrior does to you."

Another light bite on his shoulder, followed by a delicate kiss to the tingling skin, and then those talented, slick fingers probing and twisting and filling him inexorably. Their gentle touch had been a blazing counterpoint to the wild roughness of the man's other, wandering hand, especially when Maxwell had pulled him around for a greedy kiss in the middle of his preparations. Savage, liquid control had flowed out of him without ceasing, and Dorian hadn't been able to do anything but submit.

Maxwell's mouth had interrupted Dorian's breathless, pleading speeches about exactly what Maxwell did to him a dozen more times before he'd finally delivered on his promise. That had been every color in the rainbow, and Dorian had never felt so complete.

In the present, alone in his room, Dorian bit back a cry as he came, still leaning against the locked door and burning with shame. He'd sworn he wouldn't do this.

He hadn't even made it to the bed.

His hand and shirt were a mess, and he stripped off his clothing and threw it into the corner in a ball. Shayla would find it there, which was almost enough to make him toss them out of the window instead, but as the clothes were easily identifiable as his, that seemed even less appealing. Perhaps he could burn them.

Dorian laughed to himself quietly as his breathing normalized. Maker's breath, what was he thinking? It was like he was a nervous teenager again, hiding his escapades from the shrewd eyes of his father. He didn't have to be ashamed of his fantasies. Everyone fantasized about the Inquisitor. He was willing to bet even Varric - hell, even Cullen - had let their mind turn to thoughts of what Maxwell Trevelyan looked like under all of that finery and armor. Leliana had certainly brought it up often enough in those dreadfully uncomfortable drinking sessions she'd orchestrated. In full hearing of the topic of speculation, even. Maxwell had only laughed.

But it was one thing to fantasize. It was another thing to allow the fantasy to drive him to physical expressions of the desire. He knew, for him, it only made things much, much worse. And this was no exception. Even though he felt as spent as he ever did when there wasn't another party involved in his release, he could still feel the well of desire deepening underneath him. This was how it had begun the last time as well. And it would only end when one of them left, died, or the fantasy became a reality.

Dorian was stuck here and had no plans to expire. That left only one option, and he sighed in resignation. Thank the Maker the optimistic side of him had packed his clothing.


	7. Static Charge

Dusk was settling when Dorian made his way to the Great Hall, but through the windows of the hallway he could see blazing bonfires already burning high. The fortress was positively packed with visitors, of the exalted and the common variety, and while some southerners seemed to relish freezing to death, concessions had to be made for the more reasonable guests.

As for Shayla, she'd stared at his clothing doubtfully, then requested permission to stay in his room until the servants quarters were emptier. Since, if his plans went to perfection, he'd be spending the night in more spacious accommodations, he'd agreed wholeheartedly. He'd even gotten her to smile, when he'd said that if all else failed, they should be able to entice southern goodwill with the promise of better weather.

Yes, his fortunes were rising. And the startled looks from the people passing in the hall were merely emboldening this evening. He smiled. It was always better to ride the edge of disaster than let it toss one about like a leaf in a storm.

He crossed through the library, his usual shortcut, but he stopped in his tracks when the industrious librarian called out to him. "Good evening, serah," said Dorian with a sweeping bow. "Are you attending the festivities?"

"No," said the other man. He gave one of his patented sniffs. "Someone has to guard the books from too much revelry. I've asked the soldiers, but they never help."

Dorian's eyebrows raised. "The library is a common gathering place during parties?" Granted he'd only ever been to one party at Skyhold, and he'd been exhausted, covered in archdemon blood, and jealously watching Maxwell's exuberant celebrations for most of the night. Perhaps he'd missed the true fun.

"There's only so much indoor space, Altus Pavus," said the librarian. "But I called you over for something entirely different. I believe I've made a breakthrough on the mystery you gave me."

A burst of laughter from the atrium pulled Dorian's attention away, but he tried to focus. "The mystery?"

"Your friend's wager."

"Oh! Oh, yes. You've found something?"

"Not yet. But I hope to speak to the arcanist tonight. An alchemical test of sorts. But I should have something for you in the morning, if you'll join me here."

"How early?" asked Dorian with some trepidation.

The librarian gave a thin smile. "At your convenience," he said. He finally seemed to really see Dorian, and his eyes narrowed slightly as they traveled over him. "I still have rare books on all the shelves, so you know."

Dorian laughed and waved his hand carelessly as he turned away. "When there's a party on, I make no promises."

* * *

He entered the Hall through the open side door and sidled along the wall, plotting his approach. Leliana was at a long table on the dais, out of her usual hooded mail and in a light, airy, barely-there creation. Dorian couldn't see her shoes, but he knew they would be precariously tall. She'd moaned about the practical attire at the Winter Palace long enough that he had her sartorial preferences memorized. And, by all accounts, the Nightingale never turned an ankle, but she liked the room to worry she might.

Maxwell was with her in his own immaculately-tailored formal wear. He stood, bent over her shoulder as she opened whatever gift he'd presented. Something shocking, almost certainly, and Leliana's sly grin only confirmed it. Dorian had placed his own gift, a quiver of fine, flexible arrows, on her working table earlier in the day. They were compliments of the Imperium, of course, and paid for by Magesterium. But if she ever used them, she'd find his own addition to their compliments - an arrow with a carefully carved, phallus-shaped tip on its end. He thought she would enjoy the surprise.

Josephine and a surfeit of people Dorian didn't know also surrounded the table, and he didn't feel up to the challenge of quite that much scrutiny yet. He cast his eyes around the room, looking for another familiar face, when he heard, "Hey, Sparkler! Get over here!"

Varric waved at him from a corner table, and he worked his way around the perimeter with a series of murmured apologies. When the dwarf saw him in full, he began to laugh, and Dorian grinned in reply. The rest of the table, consisting of Bull, a few Chargers, some anonymous soldiers, and Cullen, turned to see what was so funny, and Dorian's smile only broadened at their startled looks.

Just when he reached the point of possible conversation, Sera popped up from under the table and said, "Andraste's ass, what are you wearing?"

"The latest in Tevinter fashion. Do you approve?"

In truth he'd been inspired more by the Avvar than Tevinter, but no one here needed to know that. From the waist down, he was attired as appropriately as a man attending a funeral. He wore long, black trousers, perhaps slightly form-fitting but nothing to turn any but the most lecherous heads. He also had standard formal shoes, again sober and correct. It was only above the waist where he'd be barred from any funeral in Thedas, though not from the seedier bars in Antiva.

His shirt, if it could be called that, was more a series of leather straps than any kind of cohesive fabric, and they angled at cross-purposes over his chest, leaving four large v's of exposed skin exactly where he was most tempting. The shoulders did have wisps of iridescent black fabric covering them, which was a shame, but his arms were bare and ready to be ogled. And, in the flickering firelight, the obscene number of buckles adorning the straps were sure to draw the eye to all of those vast expanses.

Sera certainly seemed interested in them as she wiggled out from under a bench and stood in front of him."Aren't you freezing your tits off?" she asked.

"I'm warmed by your regard, my lady," he said, taking her hand and attempting to kiss it.

She smacked him in the face. "Ugh, nobles. Save it for the fancy fingers."

"I like it," said Varric.

"Me too," said Bull, leaning forward onto his elbows. "Looks like bondage gear. Very nice. I always knew you Vints liked to be tied up. It's why you have so many slaves."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "Ah yes, psychology according to the Qun. So accurate," he said. "Please dissect someone else."

"Hey, if you're gonna dress like me, you've got to get used to the extra attention," said Bull. He reached out his finger and grazed it over Dorian's side. "You let me know if you change your mind about that offer."

Dorian glared and stepped away, trying not to shiver. Bull wasn't who he wanted, but anyone that muscular, who stared at him with that much heat, was bound to have his heart racing a little. Especially in the mood he was in. He turned back to Sera with effort. "Why were you on the floor?"

She grinned evilly. "Just tying some boots together. Wait 'til the dancing starts. It'll be hilarious."

She scampered off, and Dorian breathed a sigh of relief that his shoes were free of laces. As Varric looked at his own boots and swore, Dorian shifted gracefully next to Cullen, who was determinedly not looking at him. "Good evening, Commander."

"Hello."

"You look positively dashing this evening," said Dorian. It was the truth. While Cullen usually treated anything outside of battle attire like an inconvenience, tonight he was wearing a pale blue tunic and fawn brown trousers that actually fit. He'd even styled his hair. It wasn't the most daring of outfits, but it worked well with his rough charm.

"Thank you," said Cullen, still staring across the room. "Divine Victoria sent them. She said I needed something that wouldn't be an absolute travesty if I ever traveled to the Grand Cathedral."

Likely her exact words. "She succeeded admirably. But why are we graced with them tonight? Dressing up for Leliana?"

He'd been joking, hoping for one of those delicious blushes, and he was taken aback when Cullen growled out a vicious, "No."

"Well, then, I hope it was for me," said Dorian, trying to skirt around whatever he'd trodden into. He leaned closer. "By the way, I never asked. Did you get the poetry?"

Varric stopped fiddling with his bootstrings and stared at them both, but Cullen only said in still-icy tones, "Yes. I appreciate you taking the time."

Clearly another bad topic. Dorian looked across the room to where Cullen was still staring, but he only saw a knot of Inquisition members conversing. About fighting techniques, based on the gestures. No clue there. "It was no trouble," he said, settling for a full retreat.

Cullen finally tore his eyes away from whatever sword move he'd been focused on and blinked. "Forgive me. I - that wasn't gracious," he said. He seemed to think for a minute, then jumped out of his seat and gestured to the entryway. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Dorian frowned slightly but nodded, and Cullen led him into a corner. When the taller man turned around, Dorian was startled to see the agony on his face. "You know about parties," he said without preamble.

"I'd like to think so. More the type with dinner and scheming than the ones of wild debauchery, at least in Tevinter, but the skills generally translate."

Cullen had blanched at 'debauchery', but he soldiered on grimly. "If there were someone at a fete that you wanted to… spend time with, what would you do?"

 _I would spend time with them_ , was on the tip of his tongue, but he tried to take the man's inquiry seriously. "A stranger?"

"No, someone you know."

Dorian gestured vaguely around them. "You seem to be doing splendidly with me," he said, for once not putting any innuendo into his voice.

"That's different," said Cullen. "You're… well, a man. A friend."

"Ah. So you're hoping the time will be spent in more pleasurable ways than pure conversation?"

Dorian wondered if anyone had ever actually exploded from embarrassment. "No!" said Cullen quickly. "I mean, perhaps. Nothing too forward. But I don't know how to ask her to be alone without it seeming like I want…"

He trailed off, and Dorian truly pitied him. "Commander, if she's someone you know, she'll also know that your intentions are nothing but honorable. You're far too distinguished, not to mention noble, to take advantage of any private time, even at a party," said Dorian. Which was one of Cullen's worst points, to be fair. He added, "Ask her to dance. It's private and public all at once."

Cullen frowned. "I don't dance."

"But you could, if you wished to?" It was a question he already knew the answer to. Josephine had forced Cullen onto the floor after the Empress had been spared by Maxwell's dashing heroics, and he'd acquitted himself adequately.

He nodded.

"There you have it. In the chess match of love, it's sometimes necessary to sacrifice a few pawns."

The other man looked slightly bolstered, but he still hesitated. "What if she's with someone else?"

Dorian's eyes widened. "You're going to pursue a married woman?"

"No! Maker's breath, no. She's not married. She's in no relationship at all, as far as I'm aware. But he's very attentive," said Cullen.

"Oh. That's mere distraction, then. You'll just have to be even more attentive," said Dorian. He shrugged when Cullen frowned. "Fortune favors the bold, my friend. A conquest who rests in the sights of another is simply a worthy target. As of now, she belongs to herself. Only time, and your talents, will tell if she'll belong to you as well."

"I'm not very talented," mumbled Cullen.

Dorian smiled reassuringly. "I, for one, believe your talents are manifold. You charmed me from the very first minute without even trying. Be confident!"

He steered the ex-Templar back into the Hall and sent him out into the crowd with a hearty slap on the back. But he shook his head as the blonde head disappeared and said, "The poor man is going to get massacred."

Varric sighed agreement from the table. The dwarf was just about to add something else when a voice beside Dorian murmured, "Well, well, who ordered the exotic dancer? I realize that it is Leliana's party, and that Josephine is full of contacts, but even I didn't expect this level of Antivan involvement."

The hair on the back of his neck raised pleasurably, and Dorian turned to find a very pert-looking Inquisitor. He affected surprise when he saw Dorian's face. "Dorian! I'm sorry, I thought you were the night's entertainment."

"I'm very entertaining," said Dorian with a half-smile, and he was pleased to see a touch of heat in Maxwell's eyes.

"That's undeniable. But Maker's balls, man. What are you wearing?"

"The only suitable thing in my wardrobe after one of your allies sewed patches onto all of my shirts."

"Remind me to thank her, then," said Maxwell. His eyes skated down to the line of his pants, and Dorian shifted his posture so he was easier to eye. Maxwell looked up and grinned. "Very fervently. Have I ever told you I love a man in leather?"

Dorian's eyes widened slightly at the word 'love', so deliberately invoked. In one sense that was good, because it meant Maxwell felt the need to regain some of the control in the situation, which meant he was exactly as affected as Dorian had hoped. In another sense, very bad, because it might work. His mind was already working along dangerous lines. Such as what it would be like to hear it fall from his lips in earnest.

"You aren't worried you'll lose some of your followers' precious adoration to a superior specimen of the human form?" he asked. He moved further into the corner as he spoke, waiting to see if Maxwell would follow.

He did. "I'm willing to share," said Maxwell. "The adoration, anyway. You, I'm not so sure about. Everyone will want to be near you, tonight."

Dorian shivered, and he hoped the shadows hid it. He made sure his voice stayed bored and even. "No different from any other evening, I'm afraid. It's quite a challenge to be me."

Maxwell chuckled, low in his throat. "I bet it is," he said, stepping closer. "But I think you're more than equal to it."

The stone wall halted their progress, and Maxwell advanced until he was close enough to touch without effort. Dimly, Dorian realized how cleverly the man angled his body to make it look like they were only having a friendly, diplomatic chat and hide his hand at the same time. More brightly, he felt that same hand running along one of the leather straps before it transitioned to graze his stomach.

"You look irresistible, Dorian."

The sincerity in his voice was gratifying, and Dorian smiled but didn't speak.

"I know we agreed that we wanted Tevinter to seem more approachable," Maxwell continued, his usual baritone a rumbling, strained bass, "but this might be going a little far. All these ladies with the fluttering fans will be lining up to dance with you. Just to do this."

His hand worked around Dorian's side and gripped his bare flesh lightly, with a hint of possession. The green of his eyes was hidden from view with the fires at his back, but Dorian knew the color would be darker than usual. Heavier. He focused very hard on breathing.

It got more difficult when Maxwell started kneading his hidden hand up and down the skin that was suddenly too warm. "You won't even need the silk scarves to excite the whole room."

"But what about you?" Dorian finally answered, soft as a snowflake as it touched a cheek. Maxwell stopped rubbing his finger along the ridge of muscle he'd found, and Dorian added coquettishly, "Will you be lining up to dance with me? Perhaps our encore from so long ago?"

The Inquisitor hummed an amused demurral. "The only private balconies in Skyhold are in my room, and if we go up there we won't be doing much dancing at all."

 _Oh Maker, yes please._ Dorian leaned forward, just slightly, and delighted in the way his muscles flexed under Maxwell's hand. "Would that be so bad?" he breathed, as close to the other man's ear as he dared.

Dorian felt Maxwell shudder over him, and he allowed himself a flash of triumph. But when the other man didn't reply, he sighed. He should have known this conquest would never be so simple.

The silence stretched out interminably, and Dorian could sense the distance between them that stubbornly refused to close. Unfortunately the very public nature of the conversation meant that there was little else he could do, decently. And even if he were willing to be indecent, which was becoming more and more true every second, there was no way he'd avoid humiliation if it failed to work.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bull stand and pull Krem and Grim up with him. While they talked and joked, the three of them formed a sort of wall between the rest of the party and the dark corner he occupied with the Inquisitor. And, as smoothly as if they'd all planned it, Maxwell pressed against him, near enough that his breath floated hot and gentle over Dorian's cheek. Its scent was ale and mint, and Dorian was very close to going mad.

"And how long will you stay this time?" whispered Maxwell. His fingers were wandering even farther now, skimming across goose-fleshed skin until they reached the small of Dorian's back. He spread his palm out as far it could stretch before bringing his fingers back in and rubbing slow circles down to the top of the fitted black pants.

 _Forever_ , thought Dorian wildly. _Forever, if you'll have me. If you'll keep touching me, like this._ He'd almost forgotten this joy, the fire under the skin that Maxwell didn't need to be a mage to control. But he hadn't forgotten that it was a fire that would burn itself out quickly.

"Until you've had your fill of me, I suppose," he whispered in return. It was the truth. His body would be Maxwell's, irrevocably, until the man tired of him again. He slowly reached up and touched the strip of beard on the other man's jaw, dragging a finger along its path to feel the rough reminder of who this was.

Maxwell leaned his head down and pressed his lips to the sensitive space below Dorian's ear. "As long as all that, then?" he asked against his neck.

The vibrations, and the words, shot through every one of Dorian's remaining barriers and straight to his cock. The rest of the party seemed as far away as the moon overhead when Dorian curled his hand into the hair that was brushing against him.

Maxwell's tongue touched skin, oh so lightly, as it trailed up to graze his ear. "Don't make promises you won't keep, Dorian. Not with me."

Dorian groaned, low and soft and absolutely uncontrolled, when Maxwell's hand cupped his ass and squeezed.

But before they descended into total anarchy, Maxwell stepped away, and Dorian mourned the loss of contact even though he knew that he was at the ragged edge of self-control. As always, the Inquisitor was in tune with Dorian's body, playing his string exactly far enough to have him taut without snapping. And, as always, Maxwell was in greater command of himself than Dorian would ever be.

Still, he didn't leave, and Dorian tried for a smooth smile around his pounding heart. "So, shall we be dancing later?"

Maxwell stepped back again and folded his arms. His eyes were in the light once more, and they were sparkling with satisfaction. "I guess we'll have to see how the night goes."

The gracious host spun around as Bull's wall of bodies collapsed and said in a delighted voice, "Duchess! How wonderful to see you again," as he walked away.

* * *

Maxwell had never enjoyed a party more thoroughly. Or a defeat.

Because, he had to face it, Dorian had won, completely and utterly, with hardly a fight. There was no defense against someone who looked like him, smelled like him, _grinned_ like him, when he was so much on display. Maxwell could hardly keep his eyes off of him even now, though he'd practically memorized every line of his clothing.

Well. The upper half at least.

They were spending the night on opposite sides of the room, circling each other very carefully, but at this point it was all foreplay. They might as well already be in his quarters, testing each other, seeing how long they could push before the other begged. Maxwell had never begged more than when Dorian's silky voice was murmuring evil promises in his ear, and it was all he could think about as he made small talk with every guest in the room.

So yes, he'd lost. They were going to bed, and Maxwell would do absolutely anything for his mage once they got there. But it hadn't been a total rout. He'd made it clear that Dorian wouldn't be escaping so easily this time. That Maxwell was serious about the affair running its course, instead of being a single night of pleasure. And he had another trick waiting, one that he might have to deploy earlier than he'd expected, but still powerful.

Besides, it didn't matter. He'd risk any amount of pain to feel like this.

Maxwell knew that he was being even more suggestive, more sexual, than he'd ever been, by the way the ladies he danced with left with that extra sparkle in their eyes. He accepted all comers, including Comtesse Valencia and her suggestive ways as well as a handful of marriage hunters who would probably write home full of more hope than they'd ever had of his ardor for them.

Soldiers and the barmaids and even Maeve the scholar had their turn, and he enjoyed flirting with the members of the Inquisition even more than the rest. He whisked Cassandra off onto the floor and away from de Chevin before Cullen could challenge the man to a very serious duel. Josephine was a courtly dance of seduction that she graciously allowed him to lead. And when Sera tried to dump an entire goblet of wine all over his pants, he sidestepped, grabbed her, and had her swearing at him through an entire reel.

He was so full of exuberance that he even forgot to be the Inquisitor, at least for a time. After he danced with Leliana, a complicated Orlesian step that felt like flying, he was soaring so high that he kissed her, full on the mouth, when they finished and cried, "For the Nightingale," to the assembly without a hint of his usual calculated showmanship.

She laughed, high and clear, as the ringed crowd applauded. Over her shoulder, Maxwell saw Dorian watching them with a gaze that felt like fingers over his body. The mage's face broke into a dangerous half-smile when their eyes met, and Maxwell knew that, for once, they were entirely in harmony. Dorian was also dancing with his properly female partners who, as expected, had their hands all over him, and Maxwell was flirting and charming and being seen, but every single move they made tonight was in service of the other.

Maxwell was beginning to seriously consider a strategic retreat with a mage in tow when he was confronted at the food table by Mother Giselle, who looked less than enthused to be there. Maxwell sighed inwardly. He appreciated what she'd done for the Inquisition, and for him, when she'd placed him in the godlike role they'd needed, but they'd never gotten along well after she'd turned on Dorian. Even before he'd been close to sleeping with the man, Maxwell had trusted him implicitly. He'd shown up, alone, and volunteered himself for death without ever trying to force an agenda on Maxwell. That was more than he could say for most of his allies, including Giselle herself.

But she was a member of his council, and he was cheerful enough that Corypheus himself would have gotten a firm hug at this stage, so he smiled broadly. "Hello! Are you enjoying the festivities?"

"The people seem pleased with the gathering," she said, which was code for "No."

He ignored it. "I hope so. Leliana would be crushed by anything less."

Giselle waved that away without moving her hands, which was very impressive. "Inquisitor, I came to speak with you on behalf of my fellow sisters." When Maxwell looked around in confusion, she added, "They are not here, of course, but the eyes of the Maker are always present in our midst."

"Very true, Revered Mother," said Maxwell, fighting the urge to roll his own eyes. "And what do these distant sisters want me to know?"

"They wish to advise you away from a path that you already seem to be walking," she said. "A path that, perhaps, will lead to Tevinter."

"Peace with Tevinter is the next step to a united Thedas."

"Of course. And, should the Imperium want it, we would welcome their recognition of the true Chantry once more."

Oh for Andraste's sake. Maxwell pasted on a smile and nodded.

"But I was referring to a more personal path, one that you would walk alone. Or, rather, with one other companion only," Giselle continued.

Now they'd come down to it. "His name is Dorian Pavus," said Maxwell. "You can say it. It's not a dirty word."

Giselle frowned slightly, then nodded. "Your attentions this evening are already being noticed, Inquisitor. The Chantry is concerned that such a union will imperil your ability to make choices that will protect the people from further encroachment by slavers and other threats."

Or to make choices that would make the Chantry look weak. "I can't believe I have to say this again. Dorian is a perfectly fine influence. He's a good friend, and a good ally, and he's been that for a long time. More importantly he is their ambassador. I'm required, by this office, to offer our friendship to all nations who want it."

"We cannot stop a friendship with the man, nor would we wish to," said Giselle. "It is always good to extend a hand to those who seek to reconcile. But to go beyond that…"

Maxwell frowned and ran a hand through his hair. Damn them and their holy war. He couldn't afford to annoy the Chantry, not now anyway, and the message was beyond clear. His bedroom was watched. Of course, no matter what the eyes of the Maker were doing, Giselle's couldn't follow him all the time. He and Dorian would have plenty of opportunities to liaise very convincingly.

But not tonight, it seemed. For all she'd made him his Herald, Andraste clearly had very little sympathy for the needs of his body.

"I understand, Mother Giselle. Tell the Chantry I'll alter my path accordingly," he lied.

She smiled, finally, and inclined her head before wandering away to dampen some other corner of the fete.

When he looked around, Dorian was back at the table in the soldier's corner, staring at him with a lightly questioning look. Maxwell shook his head, very minutely, before giving the hand signal for spies that they'd used in the field. _Not tonight_.

Dorian shrugged, then pushed away from the table and sauntered out into the chilly evening. Maxwell watched him go with vague appreciation of how that harness looked from the back and rued that, yet one more time, he'd be going to bed turned on beyond all belief, with only his own hand for company.

* * *

Dorian pushed his way through the laughing crowds with no attempts at gentleness. At one point a servant flitted past with a tray of drinks, and Dorain took two before he continued on into the night. He didn't know where he was going. Just away.

Fucking Maxwell and his fucking politics.

He should have known as soon as the Chantry hat pulled into view that everything would unravel, but some naive part of him had refused to give in to despair. Maxwell may not have been a man built for an ageless romance, but Dorian had been sure that there was something in his voice. Something that said if Dorian broached leaving their night as a single encounter again, he would be pleasurably restrained instead of politely shown the door.

Maybe there had been. Maybe Maxwell really had been so tempted that he was ready to deal with Dorian Pavus, with all his delicacy and clinging wants, this time. But, if so, that interest obviously hadn't been enough once Giselle pointed out how very scandalous it would all be. How much it might threaten his reign over the world. It would be very unholy for the Inquisitor to receive pleasure from a man who loved him, after all.

Dorian frowned and finished his first drink, swatting mentally at the thought. He didn't love anyone. He'd only wanted to settle the unbearable physical tension building between them. But apparently Maxwell didn't have the stomach - or the balls - to do it.

He spotted Cullen and Cassandra, talking about shields or some other nonsense, and steered away from that pit of advice. That move put him directly in the path of Bull, who would probably give him the rest of the evening he needed but would also be annoyingly smug about the whole thing. And, as the qunari had been allowed to dally with the Inquisitor for months without the Chantry making the smallest whisper, he was just about the last man Dorian wanted to give the satisfaction of good sex anyway.

As he drained his second drink and looked for another escape, he headed for the small space between the tavern and the healer's building to relieve himself. Even angry mages had to piss, he supposed.

When he was finished, he turned around to see a shadowed figure blocking his path. Another man, by the look of it. "My apologies," said Dorian. "I didn't realize there was a queue. If you'll excuse me."

"Dorian?" said the man. "Are you okay?"

Dorian squinted at the figure, who'd stepped back into the range of the bonfires once more. Ah yes, the soldier from the afternoon, who'd shown him where to find the practice armor. Name of A-something. Fereldan.

"As always, I am perfection itself," said Dorian.

A-something grinned. "And so modest."

"False modesty is merely a way of convincing the rest of the world to undervalue you," said Dorian. "My father said that once. He wasn't wrong." He stepped out of the shadows and gestured behind him. "Please be my guest."

But the man shook his head. "No, thanks. I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to pass out back there. I thought," he began, then ran his eyes over Dorian's torso. "I'd think you'd get a little cold."

Dorian felt a wicked smile rising to his face. He'd known the man was an admirer from the beginning, but Trevelyan had been fully occupying his energy at the time. That was no longer a problem, and as he returned the favor of a long look, he wasn't unimpressed. A-something's dark, chocolate-brown skin was smooth and supple, his teeth flashed white in the moonlight when he smiled, and above all he was muscled but much too bulky to feel anything like the Inquisitor. The confidence of his approach implied that it wasn't his first time on this dance floor, either, which was even better. Blushing virgins had their own charms, but tonight Dorian wanted something more primal.

"This mountain air is rather chilled," he said, dropping his voice into a silkier register. "But I developed a plethora of tricks to remain warm during my last stay here."

The man - Adam? Aaron? Abernathy? - raised his eyebrows and took a long step forward. "Did you now?"

"Mmm," said Dorian, reaching out to pull the other man back into the shadows. As soon as they were decently hidden, he slid his hand over the thin shirt in front of him before pressing a kiss to the waiting lips. The taller man responded immediately, and beautifully, and soon their tongues were hot and tangled as they explored each other.

After a long few minutes, Dorian leaned back and stared at the man's blatantly aroused face. His palms were already sliding over every inch of exposed skin he could reach, and his eyes never left his lips as he waited for Dorian's next move. Good. This was exactly what he needed.

Dorian grinned, threading his hands through coarse, midnight hair. "There. Already a little warmer. I think you'll find I'm very inventive. Let's find the wine cellar, shall we?"

By the time they made it back to Dorian's empty room, he and A-something were all the way through their second bottle of wine, nearly all the way through each other's modesty, and Dorian had managed to forget all about Maxwell Trevelyan.


	8. Unyielding

The pounding on the door came only seconds after Dorian and his companion fell asleep. At least it felt that way while Dorian was searching for his pants. After a minute of fruitless groping, and an authoritative, "Pavus, open up," from the hall, he gave up and wrapped a blanket around his waist. It only took him a few bleary swipes to locate the handle and pull it open.

"If Corypheus is back, tell him to please call again in the morning," he said, then blinked when he saw a full dozen Inquisition soldiers waiting. The blink was a mistake, as his eyes refused to open again. But maybe it was for the best. He was either drunk or exhausted, and neither were a happy state to look at soldiers in. Not when they were armed, at least.

A prod from a sword opened his eyes halfway once more.

"Gentlemen," he said, then nodded to the back ranks, "and ladies, forgive me. Soldiers of the Inquisition, while I appreciate your confidence in my prowess, you'll all simply have to make later appointments. I'm only one man."

"You need to come with us, ambassador," said the lead sword-holder.

Dorian sighed and leaned against the door frame. "Is the Chantry finally ready to make an example of me? I'll look very good on a rack, I expect."

"The Inquisitor wants to see you. Immediately."

And that finally woke him up, at least as much as was possible. A small part of him hoped that jealousy was finally rearing its pretty, green-eyed head, but the larger part of him knew that even if Maxwell had found out about this whole thing and been inflamed, somehow, he would have just come to Dorian's room himself and destroyed a few things. He never sent people to do his work for him.

Something must have happened.

"Dorian?" came a sleepy voice behind him, and he cursed to himself. A-something had a very carrying voice. "Is everything okay?"

"Who is that?" asked the now-suspicious sword-holder, and before Dorian could come up with a tale of his legendary vocal throwing techniques, his bedmate joined him at the door. Absent the blanket, he'd re-purposed a pillow that was entirely inadequate to the task.

"Lieutenant!" he said. "Ser, I… what's going on?"

By the grace of the Maker, or his own sense of self-preservation, A-something didn't salute.

"Private Traynor. You'll come with us, too. After you've dressed yourself," said the lieutenant. "Burke, get in there and watch them."

A woman detached herself from the company and strode past the two half-naked men with barely a flick of her eyes. She settled against the wall in the attitude of a jailor, and Dorian stared at her for a minute before he slammed the door in the swordsman's face.

"Don't worry," she said. "Neither of you have anything I'm interested in."

Despite the new fear gnawing at his belly, Dorian still gave her a winning, tired smile. "That's only because you haven't seen it yet."

* * *

Skyhold was ominously quiet at this time of the morning. Dawn's promise hadn't yet broken, and even the most enthusiastic warrior - namely, Cassandra - still hadn't stirred to attack helpless dummies with their swords. As they padded through the halls and up the stairs to the Inquisitor's quarters, it felt more like a mausoleum than a seat of power.

Or maybe it was just that Dorian felt more like death with every upward step they took. When he'd heard they were going to see the Inquisitor, he'd assumed that meant in Josephine's office. This would be much, much worse.

When they finally entered the room, Maxwell looked as fresh as a daisy behind his desk, though much more serious than the typical flower. Other members of the Inquisition were arranged on the couches and chairs in various states of alertness, but Dorian didn't spare his limited energy on looking at them.

The place looked exactly how he remembered it.

"Your Grace," said the lieutenant. "Ambassador Pavus, as requested. We found him in his room, apparently asleep."

"Very good, Lieutenant," said Maxwell, relaxing slightly. "If you'll stand outside -"

"Private Traynor was also with him," interrupted the soldier, shoving Dorian's companion forward slightly.

The other man blushed, a bad look with his complexion, but Dorian only stared at the suddenly expressionless Inquisitor. _There_ , he wanted to say. _If you won't have me, that doesn't mean I'll be alone. You're not the only one I can shower with adoration._

What a beautiful lie it would have been.

There was hardly a pause before Maxwell said mildly, "The private will wait in the hall with the rest of the guard. Dorian will stay here. And thank you again."

The squad saluted and filed out, and the room was very silent. The mood suddenly felt like all of those times he'd stood in his father's study, answering questions about who he'd seen and what he'd done and why his sheets were rumpled even though his chosen lady had left for home well before night fell. At least his father had never actually had his partner there in the room with them before the interrogation. But, given the other similarities, there was only one way to manage the situation - insolent sarcasm.

"Not that I don't adore a surprise party, of course. And so sweetly orchestrated! It's not even my nameday yet. But while my chiseled beauty is nearly impervious, it does require some -"

"Comtesse Valencia and Jolan were found dead a few hours ago in the chapel in the Chantry," interrupted Cullen. "Killed, by persons unknown."

Dorian rubbed his eyes, sure he hadn't heard right. "And you think _I_ did it?"

"Did you?" asked Leliana. "It's interesting you jump to the conclusion that you're a suspect."

"The dozen visiting soldiers in the middle of the night helped me make the leap," said Dorian dryly. "And, of course, the evil Tevinter is always so convenient for any spare blame that's laying around." He finally looked back at Maxwell, still impassive. "I don't even know this Jolan person."

"He's the Hold's librarian," said Maxwell. "You've been seen talking to both him and the Comtesse privately."

Dorian's stomach sank, and he mourned for the quiet man who'd been one of the few here who hadn't seemed to distrust him on sight. But there was no time for that, now. "Oh, well that settles it, then. I spoke to them! What more proof could one need? Clearly through the sharpness of my incisive wit, they met their ends," said Dorian. "I can see why Varric is here. He is an expert in these sorts of ludicrous tales."

"Easy, Dorian," said Bull quietly.

He fell silent.

"That's not all there is," said Cullen. He looked exhausted but firm as he leaned forward. "When we arrived, Jolan was still alive. Barely. Well beyond help, but he said two things. 'The wolf'. And your name."

A sea of suspicious eyes stared at him. He looked back blankly, absolutely at a loss as to what the librarian could have possibly been thinking, before his stomach dropped a second time. Shit. The note.

Leliana stood and advanced. "Your face says much for such a blameless man. Does this have something to do with that 'bet' from your 'friend'?"

"What bet?" asked Maxwell.

Dorian barely heard him. The library sconces of betrayal, of course. "But you weren't even in your feathery menagerie," he said. "You were in Josephine's office."

Leliana smiled, only inches from him. "Do you think I'm the only one in Skyhold with ears to hear? What was Jolan doing for you? Clearly it was no innocent task."

"Did you find the parchment?" asked Dorian.

She shook her head, and Maxwell stood as well. "Stop talking as if we know what you mean. Explain. Now."

Knowing there was no way to make the tale absolving, he at least made it quick. How he'd given the librarian - Jolan - the parchment, lying about its origin, and how the man had claimed to be on the verge of some kind of breakthrough. And, of course, what its origin had truly been.

"The Commander actually interrupted us when the Comtesse passed it to me, though I don't think he was aware of it," said Dorian.

Cullen gaped. "That was a meeting of spies? I thought you were… canoodling."

Bull snorted, and even Leliana smiled slightly. Dorian slashed the air impatiently. "Of course it wasn't a spy meeting. I'm not a Tevinter agent, and I had no idea what she wanted. But my dear Cullen, I can safely say I have never once canoodled with a woman. Particularly in a Chantry chapel."

The room stilled again. "The same chapel that they were murdered in," said Leliana with the air of one springing a trap. "A particular place for your business, it seems."

"No."

"Why didn't you tell us about it, then?" asked Maxwell, still standing. The windows were open, but he didn't seem to notice the chill.

"Because I wanted to avoid this exact conversation, particularly because I had no idea what the woman was nattering about," said Dorian. "A state of affairs which hasn't changed in the last week. For all I knew she wanted to marry me. Or it was some kind of ploy, to make me look suspicious in front of you all. And there was no guarantee I would have been trusted, even if I had said something."

Maxwell leaned on his fists over the desk. "I would have trusted you."

"Flattering, to be sure. But it's your advisors I'm more concerned about," said Dorian, gesturing to Leliana. "Holding hands with Tevinters has never been her strong suit."

"She's doing her job," said Maxwell. "Protecting the Inquisition. While you're off in secret meetings and breaking codes that you only see fit to tell us about after you're forced to."

Dorian glared. "And how inept of a spy must I be, in this scenario, to be reduced to cracking my secret communiques using a third party? A stranger, nonetheless? I must be quite the master criminal," he said. "And even if I were somehow that unbelievably stupid, it matters little to your murders. I was with someone all night."

Another silence, this time only broken by Dorian's breathing and the drumming of Maxwell's fingers.

"Yes," said the Inquisitor, eventually. "I think we should talk to him."

Cullen called Dorian's companion in, and as soon as the private was in the center of the group he stood at very correct attention. Only the slight shake of his hands betrayed his nerves, which was no wonder. The Nightingale alone would be enough to terrify any witness, but combining her with the Inquisitor, Bull, and his own commanding officer had to be the stuff of nightmares.

Dorian wished there was some way he could apologize for the absolute farce the evening had turned into. The man was only guilty of being kind and having good taste in assignations. But it was obvious suspected mages weren't supposed to speak.

"What's your name?" asked Maxwell.

"Eustace Traynor, Your Grace. I'm a private, assigned to Skyhold after serving in Redcliffe," said the man.

Dorian frowned. Eustace. Not A-something, apparently. And his voice, a high, squeaking, terrified tenor, was barely audible.

Maxwell moved around his desk, finally, and brushed past Dorian without touching him. "Breathe," he said quietly.

Eustace took a deep, shuddering breath.

"You aren't in any trouble," said Maxwell, his hand on the soldier's arm. His expression said that Dorian was a completely different matter. "We just need to know what happened last night."

The man paled, and Maxwell hastened to add, "Times and places. Whether he was with you the entire evening. We don't need to hear the salacious details. The ambassador is shameless, but there's no need to take the chance he might be capable of embarrassment."

"A gentleman never kisses and tells, you know," said Dorian, stupidly. But the jibe had cut him more deeply than he'd believed possible.

"Shut up," said Maxwell, in an obsidian-hard voice that brooked no dissent, "or I'll have you removed from the room." He added, more kindly, to Eustace, "What happened?"

"I met Dorian - Ambassador Pavus - out in the yard," he answered, more strongly, but still the picture of agony. "It must have been just past ten. He'd been drinking, and he was listing, and it was cold. I was worried he would pass out, and well, with what he was wearing…"

Maxwell smiled, but there was no humor in it. "I know what he was wearing. Go on."

"We were in the training yard for awhile. And then the wine cellar, and then back to his rooms. I don't know what time that was, but we were there for the rest of the night until the lieutenant came."

"And he never left?"

"No, Your Grace," said Eustace. "The men told me what happened. He couldn't have done it."

Maxwell nodded, but Leliana's voice was sweet and deadly over his back. "Tell me, Private, did you sleep?"

"Lady?"

"This evening? Were you ever asleep, or was the Ambassador too inspired to allow it?"

Dorian flushed and looked at the floor. Eustace sounded no less embarrassed as he answered, "No, Lady. I mean, yes, I slept. I don't know how long. But I would have known -"

She cut him off with an irritated sigh. "So there is no verification whatsoever that he was actually there. It's very clever. Bards use the trick all the time. Bring a lover to your room, exhaust him, then sneak out knowing he will swear you were never gone."

"That isn't true," said Dorian. Was there any way this wouldn't twist back onto him? A flash of suspicion, bright and undeniable, flared across his mind. He shifted, ever so subtly, to offense. "So what will be the outcome of this, if you are all so foolish as to believe it a Tevinter plot, orchestrated by their ambassador? War. Almost certainly. And, as I pointed out in our first meeting, there are those who would welcome such an outcome."

By the unsurprised looks in the room, he wasn't the first to think of it, but Leliana only said, "Including you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The first night here, you invited the Inquisitor to invade your country. To change it, by whatever means necessary."

Dorian gaped, and Maxwell finally spoke once more. "I told you to leave, Leliana."

The pitying look she gave him would have been funny if Dorian weren't so furious. "You know that isn't what I-"

"It hasn't been the only time," she broke in. "Always suggesting so subtly that we would war. Declaring it inevitable. Pretending to sue for peace while undermining it at every turn."

Dorian fought back the magic rising with his temper. "There was no pretense, Nightingale."

"Then tell us, who is plotting against you? Who is it who wants this war?" she asked.

"Well, let me think," he said, holding a finger up to his cheek in a pantomime of contemplation. "Your Chantry would revel in any attempt to crush my own beneath their newly fashionable boot heels. The Qunari, to weaken Tevinter. Ferelden, to weaken you. Nevarra, to weaken everybody and rule over the ruins." He dropped his hand and said more seriously, "Members of the Magesterium, anxious to assert their qualifications for Archon. Members of the Inquisition, hoping to avoid the movement sinking into toothlessness."

Leliana laughed derisively. "So many motives, and none for you?"

"I'm tired of fighting," he said quietly. "I'm tired of all of this. War is the last thing I want."

She looked at him squarely, then, just for a moment, and he saw a spark of something in her eyes. His instincts scented hope on the wind. "You know I didn't do this."

"I know no such thing," she said. And she was a very good liar. But not good enough.

Dorian looked at Bull, who could sit very still for such a massive man. "And what do you know?"

The man crossed his legs and put his hands behind his head. "Too many things to tell you in one night," he said, and his expression didn't change at Dorian's hiss of frustration. "But, for one, that librarian was definitely a spy."

"Who for?" asked Varric with interest.

"Don't know. Definitely not Ben-Hassrath, because he never tried to kill me, and he didn't know enough about the Qun to lie about not knowing it. Got the impression it was someone up north. Antiva, maybe. But he wasn't interested in troop movements or my assignments, so I didn't get too involved."

Leliana crossed her arms. "And you didn't tell me of him?"

Bull rolled his eye. "Yeah, sorry. By the way, water is wet, getting stuck with an arrow hurts like hell, and if your shit ever goes missing, Sera took it. Let me know what other obvious things you want me to tell you, Red."

The Nightingale smiled tightly, and Bull gave her a lazy grin. "Do you know who held his strings?" he asked.

"My agents were still investigating," she answered. Her face was irritated. "He wasn't a high priority."

"Are you sure it wasn't Orlais?" asked Cullen. "Perhaps the Comtesse was attempting to communicate with him, through Dorian. They may have seized an opportunity for a middleman after Dorian arrived. That way they could implicate the Imperium, but still get the message to the intended party."

Varric laughed. "Devious, Curly. I like it."

"And unnecessarily complicated," said Leliana. "If they had time to work out such a plan, why not just pass the note then? What guarantee did they have that Dorian would pass the note to the correct target? And besides, who killed them in that scenario? The simplest solution is usually the best. And that means the Ambassador is involved. Whether he killed them personally or not." She fixed him with her patented, blood-curdling stare. "Who or what is this wolf? What did the Comtesse accomplish?"

"I don't know!"

Just as Leliana was gearing up for more questions, Maxwell spoke in tones of unyielding command. "Everyone out. I want to talk to Dorian alone."

"Inquisitor, I can't let you -" began Cullen.

"You can. Look at me, Commander, and tell me you really think Dorian Pavus knifed two people in a Chantry tonight," said Maxwell. No one answered, and Maxwell nodded. "He won't hurt me."

And then a thin smile darted across his face. "Besides, if he tries, I've always known I could take him in a fight."

There was no other protest as the room emptied, and they were left alone.

* * *

Maxwell had a headache. He'd barely slept at all, mourning the beautiful night that he'd almost had. Mourning this smug, smiling man in front of him who'd had no compunctions whatsoever about finding another companion the instant Maxwell couldn't provide what he wanted. Of course he hadn't. Dorian always had an escape route. And he would never be caught.

He didn't even look rumpled from his rude awakening. Just satisfied. The thought of what that satisfaction might have sounded like was infuriating.

In the silence, Dorian asked lightly, "So, will we be having that dance now?"

So he wanted to play. Still. Too bad Maxwell was too tired and angry for games. "I like my dance partners to be fresh, thank you," he said. He ran his eyes over the mage's clothes, exquisitely tailored and very modest. "Besides, you've lost your earlier allure."

He'd been hoping to see the shot land home. Or at least score a glancing blow. It was unconscionable that he, the Inquisitor, should be the only one in the room who was bleeding out. But Dorian's face was smooth and changeless as always. "A pity. This may be our last chance before you execute me for the espionage I never committed."

"I'm not going to execute you."

Dorian's eyebrow lifted. "Losing your stomach for Tevinter blood? You killed Alexius, after all."

"That was different. When he sent us to the future, I saw what he would have made for my people. My friends. They all died for him," said Maxwell. This was a familiar argument, and safer than the one he really wanted to have. "The fact that you were talented enough to stop him absolves nothing."

"Here, in this world, he committed no crime worthy of death."

"You and I have more time in us than the rest. His crimes happened for me. And death was too good for him," said Maxwell. He looked away. "But I know you're innocent."

Dorian's smile flashed, almost too quickly to see. "Not since I was very young," he said. "But I appreciate that you believe me." He leaned over the back of an armchair and rubbed his eyes. "What will you do?"

It was the question Dorian had asked him every time Maxwell had found him in his library alcove, reading whatever had captured his attention that week. After some council meeting, or a difficult judgment, or even just a hard day of being the only thing in the world that people believed in, Maxwell would creep up the stairs and hope that Dorian would be there, waiting. And he always had been. And he'd set his book aside, and listened to the problems of the Inquisitor's mind for all the minutes or hours that were needed.

But no matter the problem or the players or the complexity, every time, after the storm was past, the only thing Dorian had said was, "What will you do?" And it had always been enough, because when Dorian asked him that, with his masks set aside in the gravity of the moment, somehow Maxwell always saw.

Except for now. The one problem he'd never broached with the mage was how, exactly, Maxwell could let him go, and this felt much like the same question. Mostly because Maxwell knew, if he got close enough to him now, Dorian would smell like another man, and that made it very difficult to think about anything else.

"Too many people know about this. The people will want justice."

Dorian sighed. "The people will want what they think justice should be."

Maxwell nodded. "Orlais will demand a guilty party, at the least."

"Yes, they'll be very demanding," said Dorian. He didn't look up. "I wish he'd told me what he was doing. Jolan. I wish I knew more."

"Did he say anything at all? Give any hint?"

The mage closed his eyes and furrowed his brow so deeply in the effort of remembering that Maxwell felt the aches in his own mind. "He said he was going to talk to Dagna. But not why, specifically. I don't know if he ever did."

"We can ask her. We will ask her. It might help," said Maxwell. "It's somewhere to start, at least." He paused, then asked reluctantly, "And you don't know what he meant by his reference to a wolf? Leliana thinks it's a person."

"I don't," said Dorian. He finally raised his head, and his dark eyes were still and quiet. "I swear it, Maxwell."

"I believe you." And the hell of it was, he did. Dorian was a lot of things, but he wasn't a traitor. Not politically. Maxwell frowned. "I think we'll still have to arrest you though. Give the Chantry something."

"The Chantry?"

"They'll see this as an assault on their holy place. Vivienne won't allow the insult to go unanswered entirely. Even an arrest will buy us time."

"And we wouldn't want to upset the Chantry, of course," said Dorian bitterly. "They have their divine fingers in every pie. They certainly give the orders around here."

"No one gives the Inquisitor orders," said Maxwell sharply.

"Yes, and I imagine some horses believe they wear no reins," said Dorian. He looked around in exaggerated surprise. "I'm astonished Giselle isn't here, guarding your virtue."

Maxwell narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe she has much to concern herself about, now," he said. "The dungeons will be a much better guard against your abounding seductions."

Even as he said the words, he knew they were a mistake, but his rational mind was no longer in control, and there was nothing to do but move forward. The plan spun itself into place around him as easily as breathing. "You'll stay there for the week while we investigate, to pacify the right people and throw the guilty party off its guard. And no one can accuse us of partiality or not doing our best to find the perpetrator."

He nodded. Yes, those were things people would believe.

"Oh yes, a charming solution to all of _your_ problems," said Dorian. "Save offending Tevinter, which of course is of no concern to anyone. And at the end of the week, when you've found nothing? Will you simply let me go with a pat on the head and expect the Chantry to give you a rousing cheer for your efforts?"

"They'll have to. I won't hold you longer for something you didn't do."

"So autocratic! I feel more at home here every day," said Dorian. "But tell me, if your plan is to flex the bulging muscles of your authority, why throw me in the dungeons in the first place? Why appease only to later offend?"

It was a good question, and Maxwell hated himself for how he had to search for an answer. "Better to give them something now than nothing at all. They'll be pleased at the gesture."

Dorian laughed. "In my experience, a Chantry is never pleased with anything. When you give them an offering, they merely slip their hands more firmly in your pockets," he said. He took a step closer and a knowing smile settled on his lips. It wasn't nice, and it didn't meet his eyes. "No, I think it's not the holy icon, the Inquisitor, making this choice. It's Maxwell Trevelyan, brought low by very human jealousy."

Shit. "I don't have to be jealous of anyone," said Maxwell, casually spreading his hands wide. "Look at me."

"Oh believe me, I have," said Dorian. His face held carefully constructed interest, more chilling than any mountain air. "It's an impressive view. But tell me, did you expect me to be alone tonight? To be waiting for you to find the inclination to have me?"

His expression never wavered, but his voice softened just a little. "Are you doing this to keep the delightful Private as far away from me as possible?"

It was close enough to the truth that Maxwell's fists clenched at his side. "Look, I don't care who you sleep with, Dorian. I don't care if you have a hundred men lined up in the hall waiting to fuck you," he said.

A lie.

"Neither of us are exactly celibate. It's who we are," he continued. "You looked hot tonight, and yes I wanted to take you to bed. Most of the room did. I might be disappointed that someone else wound up with the privilege this time, but a night of sex isn't worth starting a war with the Chantry."

A second lie.

"So no, I'm not doing this to keep anyone away from you. I'm doing it because I have to. For the good of the Inquisition and for Thedas. Nothing more." Maxwell closed his eyes, then let an expression of concern cross his face. "You were a good ally during the war, Dorian. I was always glad you were with the Inquisition. But let's not pretend that there's anything more than that between us."

The third lie, and the hardest of all because it was also very true. There wasn't anything between them, only the wisps of memory that Maxwell wished he had.

It was a small, hollow triumph when he saw that Dorian's eyes finally, _finally_ had pain inside of them. Maybe this regret was the one thing he wouldn't be able to escape. Maxwell strode past him carelessly, and opened the door to the staircase where his soldiers and advisors waited. "Take Ambassador Pavus to the dungeons," he said. "He'll await the Inquisitor's judgment there."

* * *

Dawn was just breaking over the mountains, and the day looked no different than any other. Which was the unfairest part of all. The Maker should have sent a raging storm, or some kind of calamitous chill. Not this pleasant, sun-streaked morning with snowy peaks and, yes, even a few birds darting across the horizon.

"Your Grace?" said Eustace.

Maxwell half-turned from the window, a little surprised the private hadn't fled immediately. "Yes?"

"There's one more thing you should know," said the dark-skinned man, a little nervously. "I didn't want to say it in front of the others, but I think it's important."

Maxwell gestured for him to continue.

Eustace cleared his throat. "When the ambassador and I were… well, finishing," he said, breaking off for a second to clear his throat again. "Anyway, I realized he was shaking, and I got worried that he didn't want what was happening. We were both very drunk, you see."

Maxwell very much doubted that it had ever crossed Dorian's mind to back out of sex, but this soldier wouldn't know that. "Very respectful of you," he said.

"Thank you, Your Grace. And even though I was drunk, I remember this clearly, because it scared me so much. It was obvious he didn't want anything to… stop. But in the end, he -" Eustace stopped once more. He looked Maxwell full in the face and added, "He said your name, Your Grace."

He would forever consider it the height of his diplomatic career that he only raised an eyebrow mildly and said, "Oh?" If only Josephine had been around to see his poise.

"Yes. And normally I wouldn't have revealed something so personal, but given what's happening, and why it might be… I thought it best," said Eustace. "I wouldn't have gone up with him, Your Grace, if I'd known."

Maxwell's fingers tightened on the frame of the open window. "Dorian is an adult, Private Traynor. I have no authority over his decisions, nor claim to his bed. You'll face no reprisals, if that's your concern."

"Thank you, but that isn't what I meant. I mean I wouldn't have been so casual, if I'd known he was so heartbroken. Your Grace." The man saluted before walking to the stairs, then turned back. "And I swear he never left his room."

The soldier left without another word, and Maxwell made a mental note to have Cullen promote him. A good man, a good soldier, and shrewd judge of a situation. They could use him in a position of authority.

That settled, he slammed his fist into the wall next to him and growled. He was an idiot. An absolute fool. How was he supposed to walk this back? In less than twenty-four hours, the world would know that the Inquisition had locked up the official ambassador from the Imperium for murder. And only a handful of people, including him, would know that Dorian was no more guilty than Andraste of doing it.

He hadn't even had a good reason. Political necessities. Justice. A fair investigation.

Bullshit.

But those unbidden, constant thoughts of that bedchamber. Of wondering if Dorian had looked at that soldier with the same naked want, the same hunger, as Maxwell looked at him. How eager Dorian might have been. About whether or not Private Traynor had known the pure ecstasy of having such a man. If the soldier had felt him flex and arch and purr at every thrust. If the perfect night that Maxwell had been close enough to taste had vanished, wholly, into another's arms. Oh yes, those had been reason enough.

And yet Dorian had said the wrong name. Dorian, the master of escape, the man who never cared deeply about a person unless it wasn't too much effort, had - what? Had only been thinking of Maxwell, the entire time?

Impossible.

Maxwell crossed to his desk with a quick step and unlocked the compartment underneath that only he, and probably Leliana, knew about. He pulled out a pendant on a thick gold chain and held it gently in his palm. Dorian's birthright. He'd sold it, his entire future, trying to reach Redcliffe to help people he didn't even know. He'd only gotten more selfless from there. Maxwell sometimes wondered if the people of Thedas were worshiping the right man.

The first time they'd met in that village, Dorian hadn't been afraid of Maxwell or his power. He'd been fascinated. And fascinating, confident in his magic in a way few southern mages ever were. So charming. So incalculable. Everything about him had been new. And then it had been familiar, and then it had been wild temptation, and then it had been too far away to touch. Once they'd solved the problem of Corypheus, and once Dorian had solved the puzzle of Maxwell, there'd been nothing left for him to do in Skyhold.

After he'd left for his homeland without so much as a goodbye, Maxwell had tracked down an oily, opportunistic merchant and persuaded him, with sword and gold in turns, to relinquish the birthright to the custody of the Inquisition. Just in case.

And now Dorian was in Skyhold's finest dungeons, while Maxwell was in its finest quarters, and the mage might as well still be in Minrathous for all the good this hunk of metal would do them now. He'd hoped to give it to Dorian, tonight. To show him that his father had no way to control him anymore. That he could leave, if he needed, which would be all the more reason for him to stay. Maxwell wanted him, more than he'd ever understood before the Tevinter man was in front of him again. But Dorian was a wild thing, a creature that couldn't live inside of a cage. No matter how beautifully it was made.

Maker help him, his eyes had been so hurt.

As the dawn continued to threaten the world with its glory, Maxwell stared at the pendant and tried to come up with some way to fix everything.


	9. Wisps of the Fallen

The walk to the dungeon was no more pleasant than the walk to the Inquisitor's quarters had been, but at least he had fewer companions for the trek. Cullen and Bull had dismissed most of the squad to escort him themselves, either through pity or fear. The departing soldiers would likely begin spreading his fall from grace immediately, but Dorian had never cared less about his reputation. Not when he was so busily occupied with kicking himself thoroughly.

Never ask a question when one knew the answer, particularly an unpleasant answer. Hadn't that been the Pavus family motto for all of those years? His father had asked him dozens of questions in his study, seemingly endless interrogations, but he'd never once asked the question that would have put an end to the dancing. And Dorian had never once had to give the truth.

His mother had never asked either of them any questions at all, beyond how much she could spend at the dressmakers that week. Yes, they'd been a very proper Tevinter household. And Dorian had learned very early that questions of the heart were the most dangerous of all for the unwary.

Not that he could stop his traitorous mind from having them. He'd spent half his life biting back the curiosities of his own heart. His first and only love, Rilienus, would have said yes to one of those perilous little wonderings. He knew that in his bones, somehow, though he couldn't for the life of him understand how. But maybe that knowledge had been what had pushed him to break his most firmly held rule with the Inquisitor. Maybe it had been desperation, or exhaustion, or bitter loneliness. Whatever it was, he should have remembered why rules were so useful to facilitating an existence without pain.

It would have been better to live his entire life only almost certain that Maxwell held no regard for him than to hear it said so plainly.

Dorian pushed the ache of those words, in that voice, from that man, into the dark recesses of his mind. He knew now. He didn't need to dwell. The one comfort was they hadn't slept together again. It was hard to imagine he would have survived that particular morning-after speech.

The stairs down to the dungeon were seemingly endless, and when they were only halfway down a voice from above them called, "Commander! There's a message from the Dawnstone company. Marked as urgent, ser. They want a reply right away."

Cullen frowned as they all halted. "Dawnstone. They're near Rivain. Maker's breath I hope it isn't the Qunari."

He looked at Bull, who shrugged. "I don't get those kinds of heads ups anymore. Could be."

Dorian watched disinterestedly as Cullen hesitated. The Commander finally turned to him with a questioning look. "Will you give any trouble, Dorian?"

"No."

It was the truth. He'd been called trouble his whole life, but he'd never felt less capable of giving it than now. Besides, what could he do? Magic them all to death? Master Alexius's time spells, return to the past, and erase his own history? He was sure his cell would be very comfortable.

Cullen nodded to Bull and gestured at the soldiers. "These two will be sufficient. Come with me, just in case."

"Sure thing," said Bull. He laid a hand on Dorian's shoulder. Just like when they'd sparred, it was surprisingly gentle. "Hey. Whatever's happening in that Vint head of yours, don't let it fuck you up. Like the Qun says, the surest way to step wrong is to walk the path of your own thoughts."

Dorian tried to smile. "I thought Tal-Vashoth don't follow the Qun anymore."

"You don't have to follow something to believe it's right," said Bull. "And you don't have to know something is wrong to tell it to take a damn hike."

Dorian shrugged, and Bull said nothing more as the two men turned back up the stairs. He gave his remaining escorts a precise bow and said, "Lead on, gentlemen."

Both of the soldiers were elves, city by the lack of facial markings, and they said nothing at all, even when they were down in the belly of Skyhold. When they reached the cells, Dorian looked around curiously. They were entirely alone - in some ways unsurprising, as Maxwell wasn't prone to keeping prisoners - but there weren't even any guards stationed in the place. Granted climbing the sheer face of the mountain wasn't a simple task, but given that the jail was still open to the elements, Dorian would have thought there would be a pair of eyes on it at all times.

He shrugged, too tired to care. "So, which quarters are to be mine? And will they perhaps have a soft pillow, blankets, and a cozy book available? Or, at the very least, some wine?"

They didn't answer, and his patience unraveled further. "I'm not actually a murderer, you know. And even murderers probably like to have someone to chat with."

The guards turned to the stairs at the sound of running footsteps, and Dorian looked up sharply. He gathered the Fade at his fingertips, just enough to touch that rush of power that would protect him from becoming either a martyr or a neatly-snipped loose end. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that he still wanted to live.

When Shayla ran in, breathless, he relaxed. "Maker preserve us, I might have blown you back to Minrathous. There's a killer loose, you know."

"The other servants told me," she said. There was concern on her face, and he was touched that not only was her fear gone, but so was her detachment. "Are you well?"

"Never better," he lied. "But if you could bring me something warmer, I would be eternally grateful. A week in this place without even a sweater will be intolerable."

She looked at the guard flanking his right, who still said nothing as he nodded and walked to the stairs.. The other followed suit, and Dorian blinked. Shayla's face was serious and sad as she stepped towards him. "Dorian," she said, "a diplomatic message arrived from Tevinter." She reached into the satchel at her waist and handed him a rolled up scroll with the markings of the Imperium.

The seal was broken, and he looked at her suspiciously.

"I read it," she said. "You'd been taken. I didn't know what to do."

There was a strange pain on her face, but he was too tired to read it. Instead he focused on the few words on the page, his eyes widening as he did. In very clear, very unambiguous language, the head of the Templar Order informed him that both of his parents had been murdered, in their home. Brutally, violently, absolutely murdered. And, according to the Knight-Commander, there were no suspects to be found.

The world stopped.

At first there was no feeling possible, swallowed up by an empty space inside of him that resisted even the idea of emotion. Mechanically, he cataloged the facts. His parents were dead. His domineering father, gone. His dithering mother, erased from the planet. The Pavus line reduced to a mess of a son, barely competent to rule his own soppy heart much less helm a noble family. He smiled coldly. At least the family would only need helming for as long as it took him to die.

But as his eyes moved back over the words, the nothingness gave way to a growing rage. No suspects. Preposterous. There were a dozen suspects, a hundred, and many of them sat weekly in the Magisterium. Halward Pavus had wanted Tevinter greatness. He'd wanted Pavus greatness. And, more circumspectly, he'd wanted peace. He'd wanted the Inquisition to succeed in its goal of unification, as exemplified by his son's newest position. That attitude hadn't made him popular with much of anyone, though it had been the first time Dorian had respected him in years.

No, there were plenty of killers to be investigated. This message simply meant that the Templars wouldn't look, because they already knew who'd done it.

Dorian might not have ever cared for legacy, or for the life Tevinter had wanted him to lead - a perfect wife, a perfect child, a perfect political career that kept everything aligned just so. Dorian had never wanted alignment, or for anything to be just so. But what his father had never understood was that the opposite of perfection wasn't chaos. Dorian had wanted to be Tevinter in a new way, and he was no less passionate about that dream than his father was about his. He'd never stopped hoping that his parents would find their peace in that someday.

That hope was dead, just as they were. But he wasn't, not yet. And what he wanted, now, more than anything, was to hunt down every bloody Magister in the Imperium until they learned why a necromancer didn't need to wait until death to make the pain begin.

Shayla was still watching him, quietly, and when he said, "I need to go back," she didn't seem surprised. But she did look around them, briefly, and he took her message.

He was supposed to be under arrest. He was here as a sop to the Chantry, to keep the Inquisition, and Maxwell, on good terms with their holy power. And he might have done it before. After all, where else did he have to go? What else did he have to do that was worthwhile to anyone?

But Maxwell could do his own dirty political work, now. It was obvious Skyhold had no need of his services as an ambassador. And that he could expect no help from them.

Lightning rose to his hand again as he looked to the stairs, but Shayla shook her head. "We can go peacefully, if we go now," she said quietly. "We'll have to leave most of your things, but the horses are waiting." When he stared at her, she looked down. "I liked your father. He shouldn't be dead."

"I hated my father," said Dorian. _Or something like that._ "But you're still right."

They moved quickly to the exit and found nothing and no one in their path. When they reached the door that would lead them to the courtyard, Dorian looked back at her. "I don't understand how you arranged so much so quickly."

"I took your advice."

"What advice?" he asked as he opened the door in the confident attitude of a man who was completely free to go where he chose.

"I became a diplomat."

* * *

No one stopped them from leaving. Word clearly hadn't spread to the outlying members about his new scapegoat status. They received only smiles and well-wishes on his morning ride from the stablehands, and the gate guards waved cheerily as they rode past. He spared one, final look at the Inquisitor's tower, so imposing even with the mountains rising over it. Maxwell would be very annoyed at the extra work that Dorian's departure would cause, but he would prevail. He always did.

With luck, and a little bit of revenge gone right, Maxwell would learn that Dorian had done some kind of good before the end. Perhaps that would be enough to make him wonder if there might have been more Dorian could have offered him.

He blinked away a few threatening tears and focused on the road ahead of him. It was a long journey to Tevinter, and he desperately needed sleep, but what he needed even more was to be home again.

* * *

Maxwell took the the morning to think, pacing his rooms and throwing those Antivan daggers whenever the energy trapped inside him needed a vent. To Josephine, he claimed that he needed it to recover from the party. He'd apparently done good work there with the young hangers-on by the way she sweetly agreed that he did deserve a day off, every once in awhile.

He briefly considered asking Varric to join him, judging that the dwarf was his only companion who would be able to give good advice without being horrified or disdainful. Bull, the only other choice, might end up as a very different kind of comfort here in the bedroom, and at least Bianca had shown him that Varric knew what it was to be conflicted. But, ultimately, Maxwell asked for no one. Varric would put it all in that damn book, even if he didn't intend to.

No, he had to think this through on his own.

At the end of the day, he simplicity of the situation was almost annoying given how hard he'd thought about it. He'd left himself only two paths. One would satisfy his own wounded pride, and the desires of the larger world of Thedas, by sacrificing Tevinter's paper-thin friendship. The other would keep Dorian close to him, give the mage power over his heart, and piss off almost everyone else in existence, including his own advisors.

When he put it that way to himself, the choice seemed rather obvious.

He dressed in his old, pre-Herald clothing, fine make but simple and unremarkable, and stepped out of his chambers so quickly that the guards in the hall dropped their hands to their weapons before they checked themselves. "Ser," said the woman. The higher-ranking one, by her armor. "We've been ordered to escort you outside of your chambers until the situation is resolved."

Maxwell sighed, but he could hardly argue with that. Not when he was about to make the situation a thousand times worse. He nodded for them to fall in, and they made their way down the hundred steps to the Hall, then the dozen more to the yard, then the seemingly thousands to the dungeons. Given he'd been sequestered for the day and the Hold was still buzzing in investigation, the fact that he was only interrupted twenty times on his walk was a minor miracle.

When he reached his jail, there was only one guard there, and he was tipped back in his chair dozing.

Maxwell growled. The side effect of his "take no prisoners" policy was that the least capable of his men tended to be down here, which was usually the perfect solution. Now it would make him look like he wasn't taking this seriously. He made a mental note to tell Cullen to move around some assignments, as soon as they found an actual suspect to hold.

"How's the prisoner?" he asked loudly, and he heard one of the guards snort behind him when the dozing guard nearly fell sideways off of his chair.

"Inquisitor!" said the man, saluting and standing at the same time, which seemed one task too many for his sleepy limbs. After the confusion was sorted out, he added, "All correct here. He's in the middle cell on the left. He's been very quiet. Hasn't asked for anything. Hasn't even spoken."

That was when the fear started. Dorian was the most damnably chatty man he'd ever known, and even when Maxwell had been appreciating the gorgeous, well-turned phrases tumbling from his lips, he'd sometimes wondered if there was any way to get him to stop. He'd come to the conclusion long ago that the man would have to either be broken or dead.

"Leave," he said tightly. "All of you." If Dorian was that broken, somehow, by what he'd done or said, no one from his organization needed to see the Inquisitor groveling and begging for forgiveness on hands and knees. Which is what he would do, if he had to. He'd made his choice, and he didn't do anything halfway.

As for the other, he wasn't even going to think about it. He wasn't. Even while it was swimming beneath the surface of his mind, like the shadows of fish in his family's lake. How could he have forgotten that guards worked both ways? Dorian would have been so helplessly trapped in that cell.

But when he strode over to it with every imitation of confidence, just in case the guards were looking back, he stopped short. "Wait!" he said, his voice steady and commanding.

The soldiers rushed back down the stairs and stared at him expectantly.

He looked at the guard and spoke very carefully. "It's empty."

The man's face turned red and horrified. "No! He's there." He rushed over to look himself, and then the red turned to a dangerous pale. "The others told me when I met them on the stairs… he can't be gone!"

"Well he's not invisible, is he?" asked Maxwell, the fury and fear tangling inside of him until he wanted to scream, but his training won out in in the end. "Stay here. All of you. I'm going to talk to the Commander, and I don't want any word of this to get out. Anywhere."

The female soldier made a noise of protest. "If the killer has escaped, it's even more important that you have a guard."

Maxwell must have looked terrifying, because all three of them shrank away when he said, "Stay. Here."

"Your Eminence, I'm so sorry," said the hapless guard, and Maxwell glared at him before he made for the stairs with his battlefield, ground-eating stride. The guard might think he was sorry now. But there were possible futures in which he would be much, much sorrier.

* * *

It was the work of a few minutes to find Cullen. A few more to summon Leliana. Only a few after that to learn that Dorian and his servant had left to go riding at dawn. And it took the rest of the afternoon to confirm what Maxwell already knew - that they'd never returned.

Death might have hurt a little less.

"His clothing is still here, Your Worship," said the servant they'd sent to check his room. What Maxwell thought of as his security council were all in Cullen's office, and the servant looked ready to bolt. No wonder. Was there anyone here who wasn't ready to kill one of the others?

"Then he'll be chilly on the road, won't he?" asked Maxwell. His voice dripped ice, and even he shivered at his own anger. "Lucky for him he's heading north. You're dismissed."

"He'd be stupid to go to the Imperium," said Varric. "A day's head start isn't that long, even if he left as soon as possible. And he couldn't have known it would take us so long to figure out he was gone. He'll be easy to track if we know his destination."

"Where else can he go safely? No one would take him in," said Cullen.

"Dorian's very persuasive," said Maxwell. His shoulders were achingly tight, the tension curling inside of him with no way to release. He'd been so sure he was innocent. It was Dorian, for Andraste's sake. Beautiful, wild, earnest Dorian, who dreamed of worlds that were more lovely than anything Maxwell had ever imagined. Maxwell's idea of a perfect world had been his own perfect life. Dorian had aspired so much higher.

It was hard to think that only twenty four hours ago he'd been so sure they were both going to get what they wanted, together. It was hard to accept that this morning he'd thought the only sin between them was that Maxwell had let his jealousy get the best of him.

Maxwell had _believed_ him.

The problem with the finality of his brand of decision-making was that now his heart was breaking, cracking in his chest, and he wondered how he was ever supposed to lead anyone, much less an Inquisition, with this pain inside of him. But Maxwell had never told himself to be in love before. Maybe this was what it was like, for everyone.

Bull spoke from his place against the door. "This doesn't mean he did it, Boss."

Leliana rolled her eyes. "Only you would take running as a sign of innocence," she said.

"Running isn't a sign of anything, Red. It's just running. People run for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes the only reason someone is running is because I'm behind them with a battleaxe," said Bull, shrugging. "Maybe I'm after some other guy, but they run all the same." He settled his bulk more comfortably against the wood. "And sometimes they're in so much pain they don't know what else to do."

Maxwell felt the shot land, and he closed his eyes briefly. "Do I send people after him?"

"Absolutely," said Leliana. "Capture him, if possible. Kill him, if not."

"No," said Maxwell.

"There's no other choice, Inquisitor. He's a fugitive. A Tevinter fugitive. He's killed a member of the Inquisition, in your fortress - "

"I said no. No killing. If anyone kills him, they'll answer to me. And it will be a very brief answer."

Leliana looked at his face carefully, then shook her head. "Inquisitor, you can't let personal feelings dictate your orders."

Maxwell jumped to his feet. "I run this Inquisition, not you, Nightingale. And I say he lives."

"And if he fights? If he kills our men?"

"He won't," said Maxwell. Damn it, he _was_ arguing from his heart, but he had no way of stopping it. "He wouldn't. I'm still not convinced he even did it. And he didn't kill anyone when he left, did he?"

Leliana snorted. "Only because our secrecy was so thorough and our security so poor that he didn't have to."

Cullen looked up from where he'd been staring at his desk. "Inquisitor, I'm sorry. I would have sworn he was perfectly complaint. He didn't seem like a man who was planning anything at all, especially escape. I failed you."

Maxwell ignored his pained wallowing for now. That was something Cullen had to work through every time the slightest thing went wrong, though in this case Maxwell had to admit it wasn't exactly a slight thing. But his words stirred a new hope inside of him. If his heart was going to be this unruly, he might as well follow it. "You're right. Something must have happened. Something to change his mind."

"Between the stairs and his cell? Did the Maker come and give him some kind of holy mission?" asked Varric. "Doubtful. Even if He did, I have a hard time believing Dorian would actually, you know, do it. He's bad at orders."

"I don't know," said Maxwell, running a hand through his hair. "He was threatened, perhaps. Or he got spooked. Someone could have sneaked in, while the guard was asleep. Helped him then." He turned back to the Commander. "Did the escorts say anything? See anything?"

Cullen shook his head. "They said they left him in the cells as instructed," he said. "They seemed truthful. Of course, I may have questioned them poorly."

Andraste's ass, they didn't have time for this. Maxwell moved to the door and threw it open. "Find Seeker Pentaghast," he said to the messengers waiting outside. "She's probably in the Chantry garden. Tell her she's needed here." Cassandra wouldn't have anything new to add to the conversation, but Cullen would at least fake some of his usual commanding manner in front of her.

Before he could close the door, one of Leliana's scouts pushed forward. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but the Nightingale needs to see this immediately."

He held out his hand, and the woman hesitated only briefly before dropping the small scroll into his palm. He smiled humorlessly, then turned around and handed it to Leliana, who gave him her own smile. It was like the edge of a knife. "Thank you. Inquisitor."

While she read it, Maxwell went back to pacing while Varric and Bull argued over where Dorian might be going, and what the best way to get him back might be.

"I know where he is going," said Leliana. She looked up from the scroll into the sudden silence and focused on Maxwell. "Magister Pavus and his wife were murdered a few days ago in Minrathous. The Templars there have closed the investigation. With no arrests."

Cullen sputtered and grabbed the message, and Varric made a surprised noise in his throat, but Maxwell went very still. Dorian couldn't have known about it last night. He may have been at war with his father, but no son could take that kind of news and still be so composed at a party. Not even someone as good as Dorian.

"That's it," he said. "He must have learned about it, somehow. He's going back to Tevinter. Probably to find who did it and kill them."

"Dorian Pavus, Avenging Fury?" said Varric. "That seems even less likely than Holy Emissary."

Bull shrugged against the door. "I can see it."

Maxwell nodded. "It's just the kind of stupid, idealistic thing he would do." Especially if he'd been treated shabbily by his friends. Especially if he'd been told he was a quitter, and an Inquisitorial sacrifice, and Maxwell's dismissed, unimportant ally. Bull was right, there were many reasons to run.

That sparked another memory, and Maxwell swore. "He doesn't even have his birthright. He has no standing in the Imperium at all. What does he think he's going to accomplish?"

"And why wouldn't he ask us for help?" asked Cullen. "Despite all of this confusion, he must have known we would aid him in a search, if only to increase our own intelligence. Assuming it wasn't you," he added to Leliana.

"Of course not," she said contemptuously. "I wouldn't have let Dorian out of my sight if I had. But it is puzzling he chose to run instead of speak to anyone else first. Particularly you, Inquisitor."

Maxwell looked determinedly at the bookshelf, pretending to be deep in contemplation. None of them knew about their non-lovers quarrel, and none of them was going to as far as he was concerned. Fortunately, before they could advance the topic further, Cassandra burst in, and suddenly Maxwell had a plan.

"I'm going after him."

Okay, maybe it wasn't a plan so much as a statement of fact, but it was still true.

"You can't," said Leliana.

"Going after who?" asked Cassandra, looking bewildered.

"Dorian. I can and I am," said Maxwell firmly. Dorian wasn't guilty, but the world would think he was, especially once they learned of his flight. He wasn't a warrior, but he was going to hunt down assassins. He wasn't under a noble's banner anymore, but he was going to waltz into Tevinter as though he owned the entire country.

Clearly he was a lunatic, and a very vulnerable one. The thought of him alone, absolutely unprotected even from his own people, with the number of enemies he now had arrayed around him, twisted Maxwell's stomach into a knot that wouldn't untie. At least, not until he saw him safe again. "He's my responsibility."

Cullen stood warily. "He's not a member of the Inquisition anymore. He's an ambassador -"

"He'll always be a member of this Inquisition as long as I'm the Inquisitor," said Maxwell. "And I would do no less for any of you."

That was true enough, and the rest of them seemed to accept it, though Cassandra still looked confused. She'd been seeking her truth in the Chantry gardens all morning, probably enjoying the interrogations, but clearly she wasn't as well-informed about the rest of the Hold as the Left Hand would have been in the same situation. Cullen moved to her side to explain in a low whisper while Maxwell thought furiously.

At last he nodded. "A squad of soldiers will come with me for a time, in case we catch him before he reaches the border, but none will draw closer than thirty miles to it. Assuming we don't find him before we get there, I'll cross into Tevinter alone."

"Absolutely not," said Cassandra, finally up to speed on events. The rest of the room echoed her with their expressions.

"The Inquisition can't go into Tevinter," said Maxwell patiently. "Not as ourselves. One man will be able to get through undetected." Hopefully. He'd become very adept at hiding his hand over the last few years. And he had the Pavus crest, and their power, to protect him if necessary.

Besides, how often had he played Damsels and Heroes with his brothers as a child? He'd been working his whole life to be a handsome, noble, revered man of legend. So if he had to die, it might as well be in the service of rescuing the manliest, sexiest damsel he'd ever known.

"I don't care," said Cassandra. "There is a middle ground between one man's suicide attempt and a small group of travelers. I, at least, will accompany you."

"As will I," said Cullen firmly, all trace of self-abasement gone.

Leliana only folded her arms, but Varric sighed. "I suppose you'll be needing someone who doesn't look like he's simply waiting for his next chance to hit someone with a sword to help sell your 'harmless' little group."

"I'm coming, too," said a voice above them, and Sera swung down the ladder. She stopped halfway down when she saw their glares. "What? You think I don't listen in on your big boots talk? Never know when you lot are going to start doing something stupid again."

When Maxwell growled, she gave him a smile. "This isn't stupid though, it's bloody brilliant. We've always wanted Jennys in Tevinter, right? Bet they have a lot of stuff to say to the right ears. I'm all yours, Inquisitor."

"You realize elves are mostly slaves there," said Cullen. "They may attempt to capture you. At the very least you'll have to be subservient."

"You let me worry about that," said Sera. "Just don't expect me to wash your smallclothes for you and we'll be fine."

Bull chuckled when Cullen flushed. "That'll be the day, " he said. He gave Maxwell a considering look. "A Qunari in a band of merchants won't be believable, and in Tevinter I'll get you attacked on sight anyway. I'll stay here with Red, work the back angles on these killings. I still have some people I can tap. Might be useful to you."

Maxwell nodded, but he was frowning. "Merchants?"

"Well, none of you are mages. Tevinter likes their mercenary groups a little more credentialed if you want to stay out of a slave camp, credentials we don't have time to arrange. And you can't go as the Chargers because they know I work for you," said Bull. He grinned. "Besides, it sounds like you have a lot of fine, Tevinter clothing that you're looking to unload."

Despite himself, Maxwell smiled. "Oh, Dorian will hate that." _Please let him be around to hate it._

He looked at the group around him and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "We'll leave in an hour. Pack lightly. Commander, you can pick the squad that will accompany us," he said. He tried to come up with the right thing to say, something that would explain how much it meant to him that they were coming, that they would follow him on a mission that even he knew was too dangerous to be contemplated by anyone sane.

There was nothing. "Thank you," he finally said. It was very quiet, and he wondered if he'd said it at all.

To his surprise, Leliana stepped forward and hugged him tightly. "I will pray for you all," she said. "And for Dorian." She leaned back and kissed his cheek, then smoothed her thumb over it. "The Maker lead you to him safely."

"The Maker's will be done," replied Maxwell in his best initiate tones. But his sincerity wasn't a show. He was Andrastian, and he would always follow the Maker's will.

As long as that will was satisfactory, anyway.


	10. Deep Reserves

It quickly became clear that they wouldn't reach Dorian before he reached Tevinter, and Maxwell resigned himself to becoming a traveling merchant. Per Leliana's information, Dorian was heading directly north, crossing the Waking Sea at its widest point and directly into Nevarra. Usually a Tevinter mage would avoid the place like the Blight, but they were in a period of uneasy truce, thanks to Maxwell's interference, and besides, Dorian was well at home there. He'd studied in Nevarra extensively, spoke the language, and probably still had friends to aid him.

Maxwell, on the other hand, had Cassandra.

"I apologize," she said on the boat to Val Royeaux. "My uncle is not a reasonable man, and he is very powerful. My face is well-known in my homeland. Now that I am no longer in the employ of the Chantry, my arrival will result in detainment at the very least. For us all."

"The Inquisition is at least as powerful as the Chantry," said Maxwell. He pounded his fist on the railing and tightened his jaw. "They wouldn't dare."

"They would," she said. "The Chantry may hold less power in its arms, but it carries more adoration in its people. Nevarra fears the Inquisition, enough to accede to our less intrusive requests. But not enough to be cowed entirely. Even without me, you may have faced resistance."

Maxwell frowned. "That will have to change. At least enough to keep you safe in its borders. My council has to be able to move freely," he said, sighing. "Okay, drill me again."

She said a few phrases in Tevene, and Maxwell placed his frustration aside as he moved into that quieter, learning place in his mind. "The pants are four gold each, but less if you buy them all."

Cassandra nodded, pleased, but she added, "But your speech is still dreadful."

"I'll be more believable as a merchant if I understand the language without speaking much of it," he said. "If I'm too good, I'll look like a spy."

"And I will not?"

Maxwell smiled. "You're Nevarran. Everyone in Nevarra knows at least a little Tevene," he said. "You'll fit right in. Mostly."

As the boat crested a wave, he heard Sera swear very inventively from her prone position on the deck. "Euuuh. Stop it doing that!"

"You've sailed before," he yelled at her. "You'll be fine."

Cassandra gave him a knowing look. "But rarely was the captain bribed to expand to full sail on the journey," she said. "Varric may never forgive you his discomfort."

"And how is Cullen holding up?"

"He loves to sail," she said with a smile. "I expect he's sitting at the prow, as close to the sea as they'll let him get, inexplicably enjoying the salt in his eyes." She leaned over the railing and looked at the water below them. "When we came to Ferelden from Kirkwall, I'm not sure he spent more than a few minutes belowdecks the entire journey. He slept against the mast."

Something in her voice reminded him of a memory, and he chased it while the water rushed past and sailors scurried around them. When he placed it, he winced and looked toward Nevarra. Toward Tevinter, and all of his fears. Because, of course, her voice was his own, every time he'd teased Dorian about the way he held the next page of each book aloft before he'd finished reading it, so intent on the work that he couldn't even bear to pause for the flipping of a page. And he knew, now, what that tone had meant.

"You and Cullen are very close," said Maxwell, pushing that aching memory away.

"I suppose we are. We have shared experiences, though we did not share them together," she said. "I'm glad he joined the Inquisition. Trustworthy men are not easy to find."

Ah, that meant Varric. And probably him. He grinned slightly, then let a look of innocent surprise flash across his face. "I have to admit, I've always wondered why you and the Commander haven't developed something stronger than friendship."

Cassandra shrugged. "That is no difficult question to answer. He is not interested in it."

"Really?" said Maxwell, as though he was only mildly curious. _Thank you, impossible-to-lie-to governess,_ he thought. And the direction of the pronoun in her answer hadn't escaped him, either. "How do you know?"

"He told me so," she said. She gave him a puzzled look. "How else would one know such a thing?"

"I have no idea. When did he tell you?"

She looked back at the water. "In Kirkwall. When I recruited him, he accepted willingly, but he asked me to speak to Leliana on his behalf, as she had been flirting wantonly. As she always does," she added sourly. "He said he was flattered, but that he had no desire for a relationship with a woman of the Chantry, due to his faith. Which would, of course, extend to me. His devoutness does him credit, and I am quite content to have secured the privilege of his friendship."

Sweet Maker, what was he going to do with these two? Maxwell carefully creased his brow in bewilderment. "But you're not with the Chantry anymore."

"The Inquisition is also a holy calling, authorized by the Divine. The last Divine. I imagine it is no less qualified. Besides, Cullen and I have discussed the topic of fraternization, generally, and he sees it as a hindrance to any armed force," she said. She frowned, then, seeming to come back from a long distance. "Why do you ask these things? Did Varric put you up to it?"

"Not at all. I'm just curious," said Maxwell. Her suspicious stare didn't abate, and the last thing he needed was her sulking at him for the rest of the trip. He sighed wistfully. "I guess it's just… with Dorian… I'm looking for a distraction."

Her face cleared immediately. "Have faith, Inquisitor. The Maker is watching our endeavors."

That wasn't comforting, but he nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Cassandra," he said. He dropped his eyes before giving her a sheepish look. "This may be an imposition, but would you and Cullen pray for him? Your faith would be very welcome now."

"Of course," she said. She put a hand on his arm briefly before walking away, and he felt a twinge of guilt for his manipulation. But it was a small twinge, one that went away entirely when he saw Cullen's broad smile directed at her, swelling along with the waves.

Maxwell turned back to the sea, to those vast, unknowable depths, and lifted his own thoughts in prayer.

* * *

They wound their way through Orlais and the Anderfels as quickly as possible, stopping only when they reached the border near Weisshaupt as he'd instructed. The troops were exhausted, as were the mounts, but they'd all driven themselves exactly as hard as he'd required, and he judged that they were only a few days behind Dorian's most optimistic timeline. Dorian had only one companion, and probably very little money, and they wouldn't be able to sleep in a wagon in shifts or change horses at every outpost as the Inquistion could. Here, at least, Maxwell had allies.

The wagon was beaten up and shabby from the journey, which was perfect for their cover. Varric planned to do most of the talking, as a stereotypical dwarf merchant, with Maxwell as the stall's lure, Cullen and Cassandra as the guards, and Sera the one doing all of the actual labor. Tevinter would hardly bat an eye at any of them, except perhaps Cassandra. Try as he might, he hadn't been able to persuade the royalty out of her stance, and that would be an incongruous note that could collapse the entire enterprise.

As they were about to set off, and he was still trying to get her to be a little less upright, he finally gave up. "Look, just pretend you're in love with Cullen," he said. "That you ran away with him to escape the clutches of your overbearing family. They'll buy that."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," said Cullen, his face the red of a sunset.

Maxwell growled. "We're going into enemy territory, a place that would love nothing more than the entire Inquisition to be wiped off the map. I don't want to take any chances," he said. "If it will make it easier, she can be following me instead of you."

"I understand," said Cassandra seriously. "I will do what I must. But I think Cullen will be more suitable. You are too much of a flirt."

He gave a small smile at that, and she returned it.

"All ready for your departure," said a voice behind him, and he turned around to see no-longer-Private Traynor saluting. Cullen had not only promoted him, he'd put him in charge of the waiting guard. Because Dorian may have confided in him, Cullen said. Which was all well and good, but Maxwell hadn't forgotten when and how that confidence might have been cultivated.

But at least Traynor wasn't an idiot. "Patrol carefully, keep your ears to the ground, and watch for trouble. Remember, Sergeant, I am the highest priority for rescue," said Maxwell loudly. Cassandra had certainly said it often enough, and he heard her grunt of satisfaction behind him.

When he narrowed his eyes, Traynor nodded. "I understand, Your Grace," he said. In a lower voice, he added, "We'll get him out if we need to."

Maxwell mouthed a thank you, then turned to the waiting wagon with a flourish. "So, Bertrand," he said to Varric, "are we ready to sell some clothes?"

* * *

The Imperium was nothing at all like he'd expected.

Their band moved east to the Imperial Highway, hoping to blend in with the larger amount of traffic, and from what Maxwell could tell, no one paid them a second look. He felt naked without his armor, which was tucked safely away in the wagon, but, oddly, he didn't feel unsafe. The Tevinter in his mind had been a cold, cruel place, with sharp eyes and dangerous magic swirling through grey oppression. He'd expected shadowed eyes, downcast expressions, terror. He should have remembered that the sparkling, unelenting beauty of Dorian had come from somewhere.

The highway was clean and well-paved, and it wound through rolling fields the bright green of healthy crops and the rainbow riot of wildflowers. Forests dotted the horizon, and Maxwell lost count of the number of new birds he saw flying overhead. Smiles were ready, if guarded to strangers, and not a one of the other travelers they met, or innkeepers they spoke to, had a hard word to say to them. It was almost like being in Ferelden, that open and honest country, but a Ferelden that had the wealth of Orlais behind it.

Only one person even attempted to rob them, and he was dealt with by the guards with an efficiency that was a little frightening for someone who had been so cavalier about making Tevinter an enemy.

It wasn't all idyllic, however. There were elves, well-dressed and clean, but with hard eyes and quiet mouths that had Sera muttering obscenities. They saw a caravan of slave traders roll past them with a hundred guards, and that group was the cold cruelty of the nation that he'd expected. Many of their captives were weeping, and Maxwell saw the moment where Cullen physically restrained himself from attacking them. The ex-Templar was already struggling enough with the casual, open use of magic that confronted them at every turn.

Cullen had also noticed how far the ancient woods were from the road. "They cut them back to make it harder to ambush the road," he said one night as they ate. "They must have trouble with raiders. Bandits. Someone here is desperate."

"But the villages have all had coin," said Cassandra. "There is little poverty there."

That was true enough, and their pockets were heavier than when they'd arrived. They'd become actual merchants, somehow, and Maxwell had silently apologized to Dorian a hundred times for divesting him of so much finery. But, thanks to Varric, they'd always gotten good trade in response, and now their wagon was full of various sundries sure to gain them entry to a large city like Minrathous.

"I just can't believe how clean everything is," said Maxwell. "Even the dirt is well-scrubbed."

Sera snorted. "When stuff looks clean, you know what that means? The dirt is all piled up on some poor bastard you can't see," she said. "Secret, hidden away like. Not like Skyhold. That's nice and dirty. Honest."

"Have you learned anything from the slaves?" asked Maxwell.

"Nah," she said, throwing a stick into their fire. "They don't get to talk much, here. I'm trying."

Varric leaned forward. "Well I did. I was talking to another merchant at the last stop. She wished us luck getting into Minrathous - apparently they issue permits for traders, and without one, you don't get past the walls. They're expensive, if they're for sale. Which they usually aren't. She didn't have one, but she wouldn't have sold it if she did."

Cassandra sighed, but Maxwell only shrugged. "That's no problem. We're sure to meet a departing one on the way there. I'll get one from one of them. And I won't need coin to do it."

"Have you become a master sneak thief in your spare time?" asked Varric skeptically. "Hard to picture you infiltrating a perimeter."

"Bertrand, you wound me. I'm excellent at infiltration, though not so much sneaking. With my methods, they always see me coming."

* * *

They did indeed find a pliable merchant caravan a day out of the city, and Maxwell had no trouble talking their comely leader into inviting him to join her privately. A few delicate compliments in his endearingly halting Tevene, some smoldering looks, and a handful of accidental brushes against her body, and he'd accomplished his mission without much effort. Well, not the effort of planning, anyway. As she slept off her exhausted satisfaction, he found the permits he needed, passed them to the lurking dwarf, and settled in for an edgy night's rest beside her.

Even Sera had been a little taken aback by his single-minded, and effective, seduction of the woman, but the closer they got to the city, the more desperate he was getting. They hadn't been able to ask as directly as he wanted, but no one they'd talked to had seen Dorian. Leliana's messages, left so delicately by agents he never even saw, said nothing of his movements once he'd reached the country's borders.

Dorian should have been obvious. He should have been remembered. And he should already be here.

The worry was a constant humming in his mind, and if he needed to take some woman to bed to get into Minrathous, he would do it. He'd bed a hundred of them. _And,_ he thought, when she woke in the morning ready for him again, _at least she's getting something in return._

* * *

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" asked Maxwell as they turned down another gleaming, opulent side road.

"Yes," said Cassandra. "Lel - Our friend was very specific. And I am excellent with directions."

"Yeah, that statue we've passed three times is certainly proof of that," said Varric under his breath.

"It is not the same statue," she snapped. "It is the same figure, but a different statue."

Cullen cleared his throat. "We haven't crossed over our old path. I've been watching."

"Thank you," said Cassandra, sparing him a small smile. "It is nice to know that some men are not complete fools."

"Ask someone anyway," said Maxwell. He pointed at a couple strolling down the road in front of them, wearing the same revealing, highly strappy outfits that he associated with Dorian. "Ask them."

Cassandra muttered under her breath and stomped over to ask them where the Pavus estate was. At least they were obviously in the right part of Minrathous, gaudy and sprawling even by this pristine city's standards. And he knew he should go easier on the Seeker, who'd been invaluable since they'd arrived. She'd negotiated the stall space for their wares, and for guards while they explored, though Maxwell had insisted that they carry all their items of true value with them just in case. The guards had seemed astonishingly honest, which had only made him more suspicious, and poor Sera was pulling a wagon behind them with a surly expression.

"Worse than washing smallclothes," he heard her grumble, and he turned around and gave her a sharp look. They hadn't made it this far to be caught now. She rolled her eyes and fell silent.

But the couple didn't notice her uncharacteristic independence. They waved back in the direction they'd come from, pointing, before the man produced a small piece of parchment that rose at a word into a three dimensional, small scale map of the area. Cullen froze, and Maxwell peered more closely. Leliana had sent word that Dagna suspected the blank parchment from the Comtesse of being imbued with lyrium, somehow, though she'd found no way to make it react. Perhaps it had been a map like this.

The man didn't treat it as anything unusual, though, simply pointing a path before whispering once more and tucking the map away. Cassandra thanked him, the very picture of noble dignity, and beckoned them to follow.

"I will write to our friend tonight," she said quietly, and Maxwell nodded. "It is just ahead."

In the end, they wouldn't have needed directions. The Pavus estate rose out of the finery around it like a blazing diamond in a sea of petty gems. It was enormous, well beyond the considerable Trevelyan estate, with green lawns stretching over it, crystal spires for gazebos, and the house itself a monument to ostentatious wealth. The columns at its front gleamed gold in the noon light, with lighter colors dancing downward in gentle, jeweled waves, like the rushing of a waterfall.

Maxwell hadn't realized Dorian was quite this rich.

Neither had the rest, it seemed. All of them stood, blinking and silent, at the gate that stood in their way. It was made of delicate metal, magic-worked by the look of it, and when Maxwell reached out to touch it, he felt a light tingling along his hand.

"Shit. Magic-barred."

Cassandra sighed and closed her eyes. In the space of a heartbeat, the metal sparked and the low-level crackling around them vanished.

Varric whistled. "That's useful. You might have a career with any number of thieving rings after this is all over, you know."

"Quiet. It may be an emergency."

Maxwell hissed at the word as he pushed open the gate. The only mar in the pristine beauty of this place was that it was as silent as the Fade. No occupants, no servants, no gardeners. It felt like a dead thing. Like the carcass of some great animal that had crawled away somewhere dark to die. The worried hum changed into a symphony of fear.

"Let's find out," he said.

* * *

Sera worked her magic with the non-magical locks of the front door, and they let themselves in with quiet steps. No servant met them. No guard rushed them. No one seemed to be in the place at all.

But there were char marks on the wood of the foyer paneling, and soot resting on the marble of the floor, covering the bones and burned flesh that hadn't been fully consumed by whatever had happened. There was no blood that he could see, but there was the feeling of it in the air. Cullen and Cassandra shifted next to him, and he knew they felt it, too. This was a place of war.

Maxwell reached into their wagon and drew his sword. No time for armor, not here, and besides the noise of it might give them away. And if there were still fighters here, they were likely already dead. Sera and Varric drew their bows, and Cullen and Cassandra moved forward in unison to scout the exits. When they gave the all-clear signs, Maxwell nodded.

"We separate," he whispered. "Look for survivors. For Dorian. Be careful."

They spread out, Sera creeping up the stairs, Varric heading underground, and Cullen and Cassandra moving to the north and south wings respectively. Maxwell walked straight ahead, his arms shaking with battle adrenaline. He didn't need armor. He'd kill any enemy he found.

* * *

The emptiness of the rooms was a bit of an anti-climax.

He found nothing and no one as he crept through living quarters big enough to house most of his army. Sprawling dining rooms, a huge ballroom for entertainment, music rooms, libraries, bathrooms, and kitchens. No sign of life in any of them. No sign of anything except long-ended fighting.

He pushed open a new door and found a large study, floor to ceiling with books and dotted with wingback chairs. The room was dominated by a large, ironbark desk, bigger than some of Skyhold's tables, and covered in neat stacks of papers. A large fireplace on the north wall was unlit, but this place was warmer than the rest. Maybe because of the window-facing, and the sunlight. Whatever it was, there were no more signs of life here than anywhere else.

As Maxwell was about to leave, a voice behind him said, "I wondered when someone would arrive."

Dorian.

He spun around and saw nothing, but he would know that smooth northern voice anywhere. Even cracked and strained as it was now, even hoarse and pained, he knew that voice.

Before he could even make a noise, Dorian spoke again. "It's been almost three days. A shocking lack of efficiency from the criminal classes," he said. "Though, of course, the Magisterium has so very many crimes to keep track of, doesn't it?"

The voice was coming from a tall chair that faced the window and its streaming light, and Maxwell saw one of Dorian's graceful, wiry hands gripping the arm, now that he knew where to look. The sight of it froze him utterly, and, like a spell he was weaving, Dorian's voice floated through the room and kept him that way.

"Of course, you could be a simple burglar. Maker knows there's enough wealth here to attract one. Or you could be an agent of the Nightingale, seeking her vengeance for a crime that someone else committed. Or one of my father's slaves, back to repay some slight he gave you that's now mine to hold. And if you're an Orlesian bard, well, I think it only fair you tumble me before the end. It is your hallmark.

"Though, if I'm honest, even that holds little interest, a state of affairs I assure shocks me even more than you. My father certainly would have been pleased to hear it. My hedonistic tendencies always worried him, almost as much as the gender of its recipients."

There was a pause, the sound of swallowing, and quick as lightning a glass flew across the room to slam against a shelf. It shattered, and a rainbow of crystal shards fell to the floor in a grotesque pattern.

"They left my parents in their beds," said Dorian quietly. "You. They. Whoever. And the Templars did the same. Servants in the halls, retainers draped over tables. Even the dogs. They were all rotting, and the blood was tremendous. But dry. Unusable for magic. Not that I've ever tried it before. My mind has never been so weak as to need it, you see. But there was that moment… that moment of 'I wonder'. Necromancy brings nothing back but dead dreams, life as we mortals understand it rather than the divinity it is. But blood magic. Ah. I wonder.

"But it was too late in any case. My own blood would be too costly, bleed me out before I finished, and Shayla left almost as soon as we entered. Smart girl, I always thought. Too bright to be a slave. Anyway. I burned my parents in the entry, along with all of the others who had been ushered along so hastily to the Maker. Perhaps you saw that cheery greeting? It took me a very long time to prepare. Days, really. I wanted it to be impressive. And yet you came on anyway. Very brave of you. So here you are. The person who will kill the scion of the noble house Pavus and bring its ignoble history to its rightful conclusion."

Maxwell made a pained noise, and Dorian laughed. His voice cracked on the sound. "Don't fear, my friend. My last friend, it would seem, whoever you are. I won't fight you. Not now. What would be the point? I came to Tevinter full of inspiration. Full of rage, and purpose, and that indomitable will I somehow seem to think I have whenever I venture farther south than Nevarra.

"It vanished, of course. The Inquisition is dangerously affecting to the mind, almost its own blood magic. I never realized how very empty one could feel without it. The trip back was long, and I had plenty of time to philosophize under the stars. There are two kinds of emptiness, you know. One the emptiness of waiting, knowing that something will soon be filling all of that delicious space inside of you. And there is the other, the emptiness of nothing and no one and nowhere. The latter is unbearable, and the life that stretches in front of me holds little else."

He sighed, long and quiet, and Maxwell's heart broke and mended a hundred times inside its sound.

"I don't know what I was thinking. That I would somehow hunt down the untouchable, find the unknowable, be some kind of hero. That has never been my lot. And the world cares little about me, in any case, except to hate me. Both sides of the coin are the same. Even the Inquisitor won't have cause to stand with me, now. I've betrayed him as thoroughly as if I'd meant to do it from the start.

"I was once told I quit the field early, and I won't argue it." The figure rose without looking back and leaned against the desk in front of him, carved perfection that would steal the breath of any man. Would steal a heart, if it were offered. "And now I find myself ready to quit on a larger scale. The last exit that a person can have in their life."

Dorian chuckled, another lonely sound. "You wonder, of course, why I don't hasten the process myself. A fair question. One I've asked myself these last days. But, in the end, my boundless ego simply won't allow it," he said. His voice softened. "And it would be nice to think I was worthy of killing, even now. So whoever you are, Magister assassin or Inquisition hunter or even some wayward thief, the only thing I ask is that you don't dawdle over it. I've never been known for my bravery."

The mage fell silent and stood motionless, staring out of the window to the courtyard, and he made a beautiful sight, waiting for death. But not as beautiful as he looked alive.

"Dorian," said Maxwell.

The other man spun around immediately, shock and rage fighting for dominance on his deeply-lined face. "Of course," he said wildly. He laughed, low and angry, as he slumped back against the desk. "Of course it would be you. You never send another to do your work. Very well, _Inquisitor_. I submit myself to your justice."

Maxwell didn't move.

Dorian smiled, but it was the slash of pain. "I suppose there can be no grander death than to be cut down by the ruler of the world himself."

"I'm not going to kill you, Dorian."

"Then what is your plan? To arrest me again? I'm afraid that won't work. I have no intention of going quietly into your cells. Not now. I want an end of this."

"I'm not going to arrest you, either," said Maxwell. He sheathed his sword, then walked forward steadily. He made his movements slow and deliberate, like soothing a horse ready to bolt.

"Stay back," said Dorian. His hand shot out, wreathed in purple lightning that sparked and crackled in the air. "Don't touch me."

Maxwell never broke pace, and just as he reached the place where Dorian's fingers shook in front of him, the lightning vanished. "Don't," he said again, but it was only a whisper.

It wasn't until Maxwell reached for Dorian's face and felt the warm, smooth skin under his hands that he realized how sure he'd been that the mage was dead. Killed in some woods, or his body burned in a field outside of a village that Maxwell would never find. His magic snuffed out of the world as if it had never existed. The dazzling grin that no one else could ever wear only a fading memory. An empty place where a person should always be.

He'd seen Dorian fall so many times.

Maxwell's hands slipped around the smaller man so easily it barely seemed like moving. He pulled him close and breathed in deeply. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough, but the smell of him was an aching familiarity. Like the smell of his mother's perfume, or the riding leathers he'd worn as a child, or the musty scent of the Chantry library where he'd studied for years on end. It was the smell of home.

"What if I hadn't found you first?" he murmured into his hair. "What if it had been someone else? Your parents' killer? A bandit? An Inquisition patrol on the road?"

Only silence.

Maxwell's voice quieted until it was only loud enough to reach the ears of the man he held. "What if you were dead?"

"No such luck, I'm afraid," said Dorian, his own voice muffled against Maxwell's chest.

Maxwell's arms tightened, and he didn't know if he was furious or still terrified. "Don't you ever say that. Not ever. Do you understand?"

"I suppose I'm in no position to defy your orders," said Dorian. The words were sleep-fuzzed but clear and bitter. He tried to pull away, and Maxwell let him, though he didn't let go entirely. The mage's eyes were red and bloodshot as he looked up, and Maxwell wondered how long it had been since he'd slept. "I never realized you were so sentimental about your old, useless allies once you'd discarded them."

Maxwell winced. "I didn't mean that. Maker, Dorian, I never meant any of it."

Dorian didn't look like he believed him. He pulled away again, and Maxwell's heart twisted. _Kiss him_ , said a voice in his mind, and he didn't stop to question it. Before Dorian could escape his arms, Maxwell leaned down and pressed their lips together in wordless apology.

He kept the kiss chaste, comforting, and undemanding, but it still stirred him in ways that he'd never felt with anyone else. He tried to rein himself in as best he could, but above all he tried to leave no doubt that this wasn't some trick he was employing. It wasn't a game. Dorian was alive, and Maxwell had never been so glad of a thing in his entire life. And when he felt the smooth, groomed hairs of Dorian's mustache move under his sensitive lips, he couldn't help but smile against the other man's mouth. He'd always loved that ridiculous facial hair.

Maxwell only leaned back when he tasted salt mingling between them, and he rubbed a thumb over Dorian's cheek before he realized the tears had been his own. "You need to sleep," he said, blinking. "How long have you been awake?"

Dorian shrugged, uninterested, and Maxwell didn't like the sudden dullness on his face. Whatever adrenaline had kept him running, waiting for death, it had clearly burned out. Maxwell looked around them, trying to find another chair to deposit the mage in while he went to find the rest of the group. It wouldn't do for them to race in, weapons drawn and ready to kill someone.

But he froze when his eyes wandered to the place where the glass had shattered against the wall and saw a missing rainbow of shards. His mind worked quickly, asking all of those questions his initial shock had kept away. Who had brought Dorian his drinks? His food? There were neatly stacked plates on the desk, and Dorian didn't seem much interested in cookery. And who had been keeping away the actual thieves that would surely have come? Who had turned on the gate's security?

Dorian was neatly shaved and cleanly dressed. Maxwell doubted that had happened alone, not in the state he was in.

He shifted Dorian behind him and drew his sword once more. "Who's there?"

Dorian said indistinctly, exhaustion blurring the edges of his voice, "No one else is here. Just my glorious self."

Maxwell ignored him, searching the corners of the room. There were too many chairs. Too many places to hide. And Dorian was in no shape to defend himself if Maxwell went to search. He had to trick the enemy into rushing them. It was the only hope.

"Only a coward hides," he said mockingly. "Show yourself. If you're an enemy, it will make your death less shameful. And if you're a friend, deception is pointless."

"I'm not an enemy," said a small voice beside him, and he whirled in shock. His sword flew within inches of the pale figure that waited, but it never moved. It barely even blinked. The face of a young boy peered out beneath a large, strange hat, and Maxwell's mind ground to a halt.

"Hello," said the boy. "I didn't mean to scare you."


	11. Conductive Current

"I know you," said Maxwell. "You're… who are you?"

"You forgot me," said the boy. "You didn't need me anymore. But you can remember now, if it helps."

Helping. Maxwell fought through the sweet fog in his mind and finally found a name. "Cole. You… where have you been?"

Cole looked at him in surprise. "I've been where I am," he said. "Where else is there to be?" He glanced around curiously. "Right now, I'm here."

"But why are you in Tevinter?" asked Maxwell. It was difficult to ask the right questions while his mind was disconcertingly throwing out, with perfect clarity, scenes and times and conversations that he'd had no memory of a minute before.

"I wanted to help," said Cole. "And then Dorian needed me. It was good to help him again. He let me ask him questions, like a friend. Like Rhys."

The study door burst open, and Maxwell whirled towards it as the Inquisition rushed in. Their daring rescue was somewhat ruined when Cullen stopped to stare and caused a brief pile-up behind him.

"Cole?" said Cassandra incredulously, peering around the Commander.

"Hello," the spirit said again. "I'm still me. Don't worry. I'm not an enemy."

"Inquisitor, are you okay?" asked Cullen.

"I'm fine," he answered absently. "Cole, why did you say the Inquisition didn't need you anymore? We always needed you. You're our friend."

Cole frowned. "The Inquisition is an idea. It's not a thing. It can't _need_. Except when it's you. Then it's not just an idea anymore, but your pain wasn't the right shape for helping," he said. "I asked The Iron Bull, and he said that he would fit the shape better. And there were other people, pulling and pressing against the world."

The spirit cocked his head to the side. "I thought it would be easier if you forgot. But your eyes are very sharp. They cut me back into the world," he said. His blue eyes blinked, once. "Dorian couldn't remember me, but that's okay. It was easier to stop the ones who came to hurt him, when he was busy forgetting."

Sera wrinkled her nose, Varric shook his head, and Cullen and Cassandra were at their most impassive. But Maxwell relaxed and put his sword away. There were a hundred questions to ask, a thousand that Leliana would demand he ask, but right now he had only one focus. "Thank you for helping him," he said softly.

"I couldn't make him sleep," said Cole.

Maxwell turned around and saw that Dorian's head was bobbing down toward his chest, and only Maxwell's protective stance was keeping him upright. "I think he'll sleep now. Do you know where his room is?"

"A lot of them have blood," said Cole. "But there are some that don't. I can show you."

He nodded, then turned to the rest of the group. "We'll stay here tonight. I'm going to take Dorian to rest - he's in no shape to talk to us - and we'll talk about guard rotations and next steps when I get back."

Varric shook his head. "Stay with him," he said, only a hint of a smirk on his face. "We all know you want to."

Everyone else nodded, and Maxwell thanked the Maker that he didn't flush like Cullen. "Thank you, Varric. I'll see you in the morning."

He hoisted Dorian's arm over his shoulder while Cole moved to the other side, and together they walked the still half-asleep mage to the door. Cullen was already talking to the rest about watch schedules and entry points to monitor, and Maxwell relaxed into their competency. The walk through the house and up the stairs was quiet, until Maxwell asked, "Why didn't you make me forget? About Dorian, I mean. I've seen you do it before to people. Like that Templar from the Circle."

"You didn't want to forget," said Cole. "Smooth skin, lightning under your lips. Quiet eyes, dangerous in the light. The smell of his soap, lavender, like the flowers outside the Chantry window. You smiled when he wanted more, taking and giving. Would more have been better? Would less have been enough? Questions, always questions, never settled, slicing into the soul. But a forgotten question can never be answered. Don't take it away, Cole."

Maxwell swallowed. "I told you that?"

"You thought it, when I said goodbye," said Cole. He paused. "The shape of your pain is different now. Is The Iron Bull still helping you?"

Maxwell looked at the exhausted mage between them. "No," he said. "Not anymore."

* * *

The room Cole led them to had obviously been deserted for some time. There was a fine layer of dust on all of the furnishings, but it was clean and free of bodies, so it was perfect. Maxwell stripped off Dorian's shirt, then his own, and settled down on the bed with the mage tucked against his side. Dorian curled into him trustingly, and Maxwell ran his fingers through his hair while he slept. He looked very young this way, and the smooth, gentle lines of his sleeping face made Maxwell realize how miserable Dorian must have been, since he'd returned. And Maxwell had been too dazzled by the man's performance to see it.

But that would change.

"I'll make you happy," he said softly into the empty room. Cole had left to do whatever Cole did when no one could see him, which was less than comforting, but right now that was Cullen's problem. Maxwell kissed Dorian's thick, black hair gently before laying back and trying to find his own rest. The tension in his shoulders was gone, but the worry still remained. "I don't know how, exactly. I'm not good at this part of things. As far as I know. I've never actually done it before. But I'll find a way, okay?"

The only answer was a gentle snore, and Maxwell closed his eyes.

* * *

Dorian drifted inside the confusing haze of a very strange dream. In it, Maxwell Trevelyan had shown up at his father's estate, full of glory and purpose and sword-brandishing, only to tuck him into bed like an overprotective mother hen, clucking all the while. Even Dorian had to admit it was one of his least convincing dreams in quite some time, but the Fade was as impossible to predict as it was to control.

But when he blinked open his dreaming eyes and saw an expanse of chest lightly dusted with dark hair, he frowned. He never dreamed of hairy chests, even if they were true to life. How much more realistic had the Fade gotten recently?

He shifted to see Desire wearing the handsome face he expected, then turned slightly and took in the room. Maker's breath, he was in his childhood bedroom. Points for consistency, he supposed. It looked exactly how he remembered it, right down to the entirely unappealing pictures of beautiful women on the walls. His father's addition to the decor.

The thought of his father brought on a new tightening of his stomach, a helpless feeling of grief, and a wave of exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him despite the well-rested set of his mind. Being tired in the Fade was another unheard of phenomenon, and when he realized he was, against all odds, wearing pants, he was forced to conclude it wasn't a dream at all. The Inquisitor, somehow, had ridden into Minrathous, sans white horse, all to find one Dorian Pavus.

How very dashing of him.

Dorian sat up and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake away the remaining cobwebs. His companion stirred behind him, and a shiver-inducing, "Good morning," floated across bed. Dorian almost groaned at the purring, seductive tone of the words. Or maybe it was just what he was hoping to hear, no matter how unlikely this whole scenario was. A long journey with only a rather quiet elf for company had left him a lot of room for imagining various scenes in which Trevelyan begged him to return, and all of them were clamoring for recognition now.

And that simply wouldn't do at all.

Dorian turned around with a deliberately considering look and grinned at the man watching him in turn. On treacherous ground, it was best to tread lightly. "My word, a man stretched across my childhood bed. Shirtless, no less. If my fourteen year-old self could see this, he simply would not believe it."

Maxwell grinned back, eyes only half-open in the morning light. "Would he be impressed?"

"More surprised, I think. You're not really his type, if I'm being honest."

The other man's grin vanished as his brow drew down. "I'm everyone's type," he said, with that hint of pique that was always real.

Dorian nearly laughed. Maxwell needed adoration even from specters of the past to be satisfied. "I'm afraid young Dorian Pavus was more excited by the prototypical mage ideal at the time. Thin to the point of emaciation, brooding manners, cheekbones fine enough to slice parchment. He thought it was all very mysterious."

"So you would have preferred Solas to be here instead."

" _Venhedis,_ " said Dorian, horrified. And slightly aroused, here in his old bed, given how perfectly the elf would have fit his little fantasies. Even the pointed ears had been something of an old standard at the time. "I don't want to think about that. Thank goodness that my tastes refined considerably as I aged."

Maxwell wriggled up to lean against the wall, crossing his arms behind his head as he studied him. Dorian eyed the on-display biceps with his usual open interest, and Maxwell's own eyes narrowed. "I never would have thought they'd be so esoteric as to prefer these," he said, nodding to the pictures that lined the wall.

Dorian laughed as he stood, settling his trousers around him more securely. It was strange, here in the brightness of morning, to have an audience once more. Like blinking away from a captivating book and reorienting into the world once more. Those long days of solitude were blending into unbroken, confused memory, one that didn't quite seem real. Perhaps he ceased to truly exist when there was no one to watch him do it. That was a depressing thought.

"No, these were my father's idea," he said. "Halward Pavus is -" He paused, swallowing slowly as he blinked and turned away. "He was a firm believer in exposure to the right sort of influences."

The silence between them was perfect for a long minute. "I'm sorry," said Maxwell eventually.

"Thank you, Inquisitor."

From the creaking of the bed behind him, Maxwell was making his own exit, and Dorian tamped down his sudden fear. He didn't want the Inquisitor to touch him out of pity. Pity would never survive the grieving period, but it would make Dorian want far more than he'd be given. And besides, he felt strange right now, hollow and light, and he wasn't sure if he wanted anyone at all. Even Maxwell Trevelyan.

"Wait," he said, striving for artless grace. "You won't get the proper show if you're out of bed."

Maxwell laughed, and when Dorian turned around he was sitting upright with an expectant look on his face. The moment of sympathy was past, and Dorian was very glad to be playing again. "For my next trick," he said, flourishing his arms in the manner of a traveling entertainer. He ended up with his hand pointing at the largest picture, across from the bed. "Now you see it."

He waved his hand and lightly called the Fade in that familiar way that even a decade would never tear away from him. As he watched, the image on the picture changed from the pouting, beautiful woman to a smiling, half-dressed man.

"Andraste's ass," said Maxwell, stifling a chuckle. "I take it your father didn't approve that part of the design."

Dorian smiled. "No. It was entirely my own creation. Well, mine and another enterprising lad that I studied alongside. We were both prodigies, though I was a bit more prodigious than he. In all ways, much to his annoyance."

"Is that him?"

His smile vanished. "Neither he nor I would have found much pleasure in fantasizing about something so easily obtained as each other. And, of course, the image changed over the years. This last one was a man named Rilienus."

Maxwell leaned forward suddenly. "You talked about him, once, when we were in the Dales." When Dorian crossed his arms, the Inquisitor shrugged. "I eavesdropped on all of your conversations. It's not like you were whispering. I got the impression he was an old lover."

"A strangely apt description," said Dorian. "He was certainly older than I. I suppose he was my first love. He was a guard who accompanied a group of mage students to Nevarra, to learn from the Mortalitasi. I learned quite a bit on that trip. Some of it was even about magic."

"A guard? Not a mage?"

"No, my father was much too clever for all that," said Dorian. He wasn't sure why he was so interested in taking this journey into the past. Maybe because it wasn't the present, which was empty, or the future, which was emptier. "I was accompanied by only female students. Aspirational matchmaking, I think. And I suppose he thought it impossible I, the future Archon, would see any non-magical persons as anything but furniture."

Maxwell's eyes drifted back to the still-changed picture. "He looks cheerful."

Dorian laughed. "He was. After a life of noble masquerades and dreary playacting, it was a breath of fresh air to meet someone who could truly greet the morning with a smile. Which we often did, together. I realize it was all very scandalous, now, but back then he was glorious. My highly-sophisticated, very refined flirting drew him in immediately, of course, and he taught me all of those little things I hadn't managed to discover for myself," he said. He looked back to the wall and allowed the picture to settle back to its more permanent setting. "He was very kind about it all. A gawky teenager, breathless and eager, could hardly have been his romantic ideal."

Maxwell frowned slightly. "I get the feeling that you cared for him much more than you're letting on."

"Full marks for the Inquisitor," said Dorian lightly. "As I said, he was my first love. Also my last. When we returned, he was in Minrathous for a time, between jobs. We still met when we could. I was only sixteen, full of idealistic fantasies and hopes that I know now were absolute piffle, but at the time they consumed me. I was on the verge of asking him to take me with him on his next assignment, one that would take him to the south of Tevinter. I was going to run away, from this." He waved his hand vaguely at the surrounding house.

The Inquisitor said nothing, and Dorian continued, making sure his voice stayed carefully casual. "When my father found out, he had Rilienus prosecuted. Some trumped up charge, but one of the charming things about Tevinter, at least in the modern day, is that you're always breaking a rule, if the rulemakers look hard enough. He was convicted, branded, and his debt to society sold to a unit in Seheron that was fighting the Qunari. That was the last I heard of him. For all I know, Bull may have killed him personally. I never asked.

"My father tried to change me the same day Rilienus left. He held his little ritual, red clothing mandatory, but without true conviction what good is blood magic? My will was certainly stronger than his. So I ran away after all, on my own. I went back to Nevarra, then the Circle, secure in the knowledge he couldn't afford to disown me outright, and later Alexius took me in as his mentee. But after all that fuss, it seemed much simpler not to love."

Dorian looked around, at the present that was bleeding in once more. "They've hardly touched this place," he said to himself. He wondered if his mother had ever opened the door and thought to find him after he was gone, or if his father had walked the vast space and felt regret. He wondered if they'd thought of him before they'd died.

It would be nice to think so, anyway.

"Did they give you new quarters when you came back, then? The place is big enough, I suppose, though that seems strange," said Maxwell.

Dorian lifted a delicate eyebrow in confusion. "I haven't been to the estate since that fateful day," he said. "Until now. I could hardly stomach the sight of it."

"But your money. And Shayla, and the clothes," said Maxwell, a hint of question in his voice. "You went back to your father. He got you appointed ambassador."

"To the last, yes. Mostly to stop my embarrassing him with my bourgeoisie lifestyle here in Minrathous, I expect," said Dorian. "I did enjoy a good party, but I would always settle for a bad one. Shayla was a gift, unwanted but too difficult to refuse. She was more spy than helpmate, I expect, based on her grief at his passing. But as for the money, Felix had no wife or heirs, so he left the Alexius fortune to me. I lived in their house for years, you know, and I stayed there when I returned to Tevinter. The Alexius birthright is almost as valuable as my own was, even with their recent social diminishment."

When he looked up, the Inquisitor's eyes were narrow and accusing. Dorian shrugged. "I may have let you believe my means came from other sources. You were very intent on accusing me of inexcusable weakness, as I recall. I would have hated to spoil your fun."

Maxwell started to say something, but Dorian waved a hand. "You're forgiven."

"I wasn't going to apologize," said Maxwell. He stood and walked around the bed. He leaned against a post with a considering look. "I was going to say that you're a stubborn bastard."

"I am that," said Dorian, smiling reluctantly.

"Lucky for you I like stubborn bastards."

Dorian's heart skipped at the warm grin on Maxwell's face. "The things you say," he said carelessly, to cover his agitation. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them to reach for his shirt and tug it over his head.

Maxwell seemed to sense his need for distance, because he did the same thing quietly. Only when he was clothed did he speak again, nose wrinkled. "I need a bath. Your country is a smelly one."

"To anyone less exalted, I might suggest the delicate fragrance of Tevinter has merely revealed your own pungent odor," said Dorian, collecting himself once more. "However, given you are the Inquisitor, I will lead you to the house baths without a word. Well, after we eat and you explain what in the Void you're doing here in the first place."

"How chivalrous of you," said Maxwell. He curtsied gracefully, holding out nonexistent skirts behind him. "Such a pleasure to find a gentleman at the end of a weary journey."

Dorian shook his head and ushered him out of the room. Before they reached the stairs that would lead them to the kitchens, Maxwell stopped and frowned. "I don't actually smell bad, do I? I mean, usually."

As though Maxwell had any flaw at all. As though his smell of metal and horse was anything but intoxicating. But Dorian only shrugged noncommittally before he walked down the stairs, and the annoyed repetition behind him did more to distract him from the persistent sorrow in his heart than anything else could.

* * *

The kitchen had several more bodies in it than Dorian had expected.

Cullen and Cassandra stood at one of the many stoves, doing whatever it was that people did at them. Dorian had never been encouraged to find out, and while his campfire cooking had improved dramatically once he'd decided to join up with the Inquisition, when he was in civilization he still preferred to be pampered. Varric sat at the low kitchen table, the place where the slaves ate, disassembling his crossbow and cleaning it, while Sera was crouched on the sill of the large window, peering out at Maker knew what.

They all turned to stare at him when he entered, and he summoned up all of his reserves of dilettantism. "If I'd known I was hosting a party, I would have made the place a little more festive! I hope the blood and death didn't detract from the revelry."

No one smiled, but he felt the comforting weight of the Inquisition at its most noble pressing against him. It seemed they didn't need to be in Skyhold to be the very personification of aid and succor. Despite it all, the distance he'd placed between himself and them with his escape, the atmosphere held the camaraderie that he'd become addicted to, when he wasn't paying attention.

Cullen spoke first, but he only said, "I hope you don't mind that we're eating your food."

Dorian leaned against the doorframe. "Not at all, Commander. I assure you that you'll be using it better than I ever would. Or I assume so, anyway, with the delicious way you're holding that ladle."

Cullen flushed as Varric chuckled, and the tension in the room abated slightly. "My mother taught us all to cook, and I always enjoyed it. The Templars didn't afford much time for me to be in the kitchens, but I haven't forgotten everything," he said. "And I have a very good sous chef."

He nudged Cassandra, who smiled down at her work delightedly. "I'm making potatoes," she said. "I've never cooked before, but this is not so terrifying."

Maxwell stepped around him and plopped down next to Varric. The dwarf nodded in acknowledgment before saying in a carrying whisper, "Word to the wise. Don't eat the potatoes."

Cassandra whirled around, brandishing a spatula in a very threatening way, and Varric held up his hands as Maxwell smothered a laugh. "What? I thought you Seekers appreciated honesty! The last time I skirted the truth you tried to punch me in the face," said the dwarf.

"Honesty is not the same as saying all the thoughts that come to mind, _Varric_ ," said Cassandra.

"I'll eat his share," Cullen offered quietly next to her. "I'm sure they'll be delicious."

"Thank you. You are an actual gentleman," she said, glaring at Varric. "Rare to find these days, it would seem."

When she turned around, Varric winked at Maxwell, who grinned back, and Dorian narrowed his eyes. He took in the cozy domesticity of the two warriors, paying particular attention to the way Cullen's body stood slightly open to the Seeker, ready and waiting for her every move, and everything slotted into place.

 _Them?_ he mouthed to the two men at the table, and Varric nodded vigorously. Sera's rolled eyes were double confirmation, and Dorian smoothed a finger over his mustache. "You know, I think I know a poem about breakfast," he said. " _An Ode To Ham and Eggs_ , I believe it's called."

Cullen coughed hurriedly, but Cassandra didn't turn around. "I don't know that one. Cullen knows a very lovely one about the moon, however."

"Does he?" said Dorian with exaggerated, wide-eyed surprise. "Will we be blessed with a recitation, right here in the kitchen?"

The blonde man mumbled something about looking for fruit and scurried into the pantry while Cassandra protested the abandonment. Dorian finally took a seat, carefully away from Maxwell, and Varric leaned over once he was settled. "Welcome to the club, Sparkler. It's like fish in a barrel around here."

Dorian smiled, but he didn't answer, instead saying to the entire room, "Yes, what are you all doing here, anyway?"

"The Inquisitor insisted on going after you, for your safety. We insisted on going with him, for his. And yours, of course," said Cassandra. "Not that there was much doubt, but Leliana has officially cleared you of suspicion. She, along with Iron Bull, have determined that the knife skills employed are beyond your abilities. The assassin was highly trained."

"Ah, to be cleared by my own ineptitude. A dream come true," said Dorian. "What about the note? Did Dagna know anything?"

"No," said Cullen. "She suspected it was infused with lyrium in some way, but that was all she knew. Without the note itself, further speculation is wandering, at best. Unless you know of such magic in Tevinter?"

Maxwell leaned forward. "We saw a man with a map, one that rose out of paper. And the trick with the picture. Does that use lyrium?"

"No," said Dorian. "The man must have been a mage. And a mage would have no need of lyrium activation - we can manipulate the Fade directly. I sensed nothing usable on it, at least not by direct magic."

He paused, then said reluctantly, "The effect could be perhaps be replicated, somehow, with lyrium by a non-mage. I've never heard of it being done, and I have no idea how anyone would trigger it to reveal its secrets safely. A watered-down lyrium mixture is relatively harmless, in small doses, but it would ruin whatever had been created. And anything stronger, more targeted, would drive the user insane merely by touching it."

"Maybe it did," said Varric. "After all, whoever it was did kill two people. Not exactly the sign of a balanced mind."

Cassandra shook her head. "If there a lyrium-mad lunatic wandering through Skyhold, they would have been found. To kill is nothing. To escape implies intelligence."

Sera hopped down from her place on the sill. "This is stupid. Let them sort it out. Who cares, yeah? It's not the big mustache, so that's it. Job done."

"Whoever killed the Comtesse and Jolan may know who redecorated my childhood home," said Dorian. His jaw tightened. "Despite the fragments of dramatic speech I remember giving, I am still quite interested in that information. And utilizing it. If you'll help me, of course."

Cassandra looked wary, but the rest of them nodded. To Dorian's surprise, Sera even crossed the room and leaned over to hug him awkwardly around the shoulders. When she pulled away, he arched an eyebrow in her direction and she scowled. "What? I never had parents, but that doesn't mean I like, think it's good when someone else's get killed. Unless they're assholes. And yours were nobles, so, fine, maybe, but that doesn't mean shit to you. 'Cause they were yours, yeah?"

Dorian smiled faintly. "A very accurate summation of our relationship."

The elf folded her arms. "You don't have to get all gushy," she said. She looked at Maxwell. "I'm gonna go do Jenny stuff. Big Boots here figured out the automatic security so I don't need to be here. Gotta be some little people who don't know they've got ears for listening."

Dorian expected Maxwell to protest, or at least call it dangerous, but instead he frowned. "Security," he said quietly, furrowing his brow. It cleared as he he looked around sharply. "Where's Cole?"

"Who's Cole?" asked Dorian, but the rest of them also looked around.

"I don't know," said Cullen slowly. He had several plates on his arms, and he passed them out as he spoke. "He left with you, and then he came back and told me where the security was. And then he was gone. He said he had to get back to… somewhere. Do you remember, Cassandra?"

"No. It was very sudden."

Maxwell ran a finger along his newly scruffy beard. "Well, he's always been odd. Try to remember him, at least," he said. "Hopefully he'll be back. I'll explain it all to you in the bath," he added to Dorian.

Varric coughed a laugh, and Dorian kicked him. It only made him laugh harder. But Dorian had never felt less like laughing as he searched for his usual smooth innuendo. "I'll do my best to keep my eyes closed," he said. "But temptations can be so overwhelming."

"Don't overexert yourself on my account," said Maxwell, winking, and Dorian couldn't resist smiling back despite his discomfort. It was sinful how alluring the man was. At least flirting wasn't as terrifying as what might come from it.

Cassandra sighed. "I would love a bath," she said wistfully. "It been ages since I've been clean."

"You're in luck," said Dorian brightly. "In Tevinter, baths are less solitary chores and more social engagements. My father has a particularly fine example of a family bathhouse, so we can all enjoy one together! I'm sure the Commander would also enjoy cleanliness as well."

"Breakfast is served," said Cullen loudly, a tinge of red on his ears. He waved them to their seats, likely to give their mouths other occupation. It worked, for the most part, and they ate in companionable silence. Including the potatoes, which Dorian had to admit were more edible than he'd expected.

But the Inquisition was a talkative group on the whole. When they finished, Varric said, "Not that an Inquisition group bath doesn't sound like a great storyline for _This Shit Is Weird_ , but I think I'll go out with Sera. An elf this crazy alone in Minrathous seems like a good way for some people to get dead. I want to get the rest of our things from the market, anyway. If we're staying here, I doubt we'll need to be selling crap down by the city gates to earn our keep."

Dorian turned from his place at the washbasin. "You came as merchants? How did you get in the city?"

Maxwell gave him a smile that meant trouble. "Long story. I'll tell you later," he said. "But I should ask you the same thing. How did you get in?"

"The Alexius birthright, of course. I'm the long-lost cousin Thom Alexius, come to reclaim my estate after I wrestled it away from the treacherous Dorian Pavus. They waved me right through," said Dorian. "But I'm very interested in this merchant business. What were you selling, exactly?"

"We had a lot of Tevinter crap to unload," said Sera, a little indistinctly around her final mouthful. "The shite without patches on it, anyway."

Dorian narrowed his eyes. "You sold my clothing?"

"For a very good price," said Varric.

"I'll have you know I was very attached to some of those shirts. They were like old friends."

But his irritation was buried under nerves when Maxwell gave him a blinking, imploring look and stepped closer. Too close for friendly flirtation. "The Inquisition will buy you a whole new wardrobe," he said. "More buckles. Less material. Whatever you want."

Before Dorian could begin negotiations, Maxwell ran a calloused hand up his arm and threw every possible thought out of his head. The roaming hand kept moving until it curled around the nape of Dorian's neck. "Can you forgive me?" he asked softly.

Dorian swallowed heavily, but he kept a light smile on his face. This was moving entirely too quickly for his tastes, but the surest way of shooing the Inquisitor away was to make him feel at a disadvantage. "You'll have to be very convincing in your groveling," he said. "I would never miss a chance to have the Inquisitor at my mercy."

But instead of flashing annoyance, Maxwell's eyes changed to a deeper, seductive green. "As you wish," he said, and while Dorian was still sorting through his shock, he felt those soft, damnably lovely lips meet his own.

He gasped when Maxwell pulled him closer, and the other man took the opening with his usual sureness. But the demanding pressure Dorian associated with the Inquisitor wasn't there. The kiss was gentle and restrained, and while a small part of Dorian was on fire, his fingers twisting into that beautiful hair, another part of him was only reminded of how fragile he really was.

Not that it stopped him from enjoying every second of it. When they were finished, Dorian was breathing heavily, and his other hand had wandered down to brush over the strip of fair skin that separated shirt from pants. Maxwell was always like a campfire, burning hot and strong, and the look on his face was even more blazing as he licked his lips. Dorian leaned up to kiss him once more, parting his mouth in blatant invitation, and Maxwell took the bait for another long minute, a little more urgently, before pushing himself away.

Dorian shot him a half-grin that was much steadier than he felt, and Maxwell shook his head. "I can't believe you made me wait so long for that."

"The kissing or the breakfast?"

"Both."

He turned around when Sera made a disgusted noise. They were all staring with various levels of interest, but she had her arms folded. "Too much sappy shite going on around here."

"You'd better get used to it," said Maxwell, tipping his head minutely at Cullen and Cassandra.

"Ugh," said Sera. She looked over at Varric balefully. "Don't you even think about it."

Dorian chuckled as she stomped out, but his heart beat in faster rhythm when Maxwell turned around again. "So, you said something about a large bath?"

He wondered if there was any way to decline without it seeming like he was broken beyond repair. He wondered if he was broken beyond repair, that he wasn't gleefully anticipating a thing he'd wanted again ever since he'd been dismissed the first time. Something he'd been wanting, period, since the first time Maxwell's warm, easy beauty had stepped into his life.

"Follow me," said Dorian with a carefully crafted smile. "Let's see if we can get you clean."


	12. Bulwark

Love was impossible.

Maxwell had lived his entire life secure in the knowledge of one thing: He was the solution to any problem in the vicinity. In Ostwick, he'd fetched and carried, rescued the smallest kittens from trees, and even made his mother laugh in the midst of her illness. At the Chantry, he'd found the sisters' missing items, led classes when the chancellors were missing, and comforted grieving petitioners, often with clothes on. And, of course, the Inquisition had been the grandest opportunity of all. Maxwell had embraced all of Thedas, as Herald and Inquisitor, and every problem had fallen at his feet with hardly a stutter.

There was no woman he couldn't aid, no man he couldn't bolster. Strangers, friends, bedmates, the one constant to their lives was that Maxwell would be the key to their needs.

But apparently, love was a very different dragon to slay, because Dorian's pain was a shape he couldn't change.

Maxwell bathed alone in the end, annoyed and a little turned on after Dorian swanned out to do a little magical scrubbing, as he put it. His fragility and exhaustion from the day before was gone, or so it seemed, but Maxwell knew better now. He was hiding it, but no matter what tactic Maxwell tried, he couldn't make any headway towards fixing it.

He'd tried listening in the bedroom, hands-off and distant even though Dorian was somehow even sexier in the morning than he was at any other time of day. He'd tried comforting flirtation in the kitchen, a soft approach and softer kissing, despite the fact that the Tevinter man always kissed like a man a half-step away from ripping clothing off. And in the bathing house he'd tried outright seduction, inviting Dorian to join him with no attempt to shade his desires. And Dorian had walked away so quickly it was like a knife in the gut.

Either Maxwell did smell as badly as he feared, or Dorian needed someone else to help him.

Eustace Traynor's handsome face flashed through his mind, and he growled as he finally finished washing himself. That was not going to happen. Dorian was his responsibility. And if the mage needed someone, it was damn well going to be Maxwell Trevelyan.

* * *

One thing that he could do was clear the house of blood. The mage didn't need to see the reminders of the atrocity everywhere he moved, and once Dorian showed them the spells that could be keyed throughout the house to do the hardest part of the work, Maxwell talked Cassandra into taking a guided tour of the gardens while he and Cullen got down to business. It wasn't as though either of them were unaccustomed to blood.

"Did you have these spells in the Circles?" asked Maxwell as they worked their way through another room. Thanks to the spells, the blood had at least coalesced out of the furnishings and carpets for easy removal. Easier, anyway. It still required a lot of time on his hands and knees.

Cullen shook his head. "No. The ones I lived in were made of stone, firstly. But mostly it was deemed dangerous to encourage such an open use of magic."

"But it would be so useful," said Maxwell. "My father's servants would have killed for this kind of assistance. Not that we were ever quite this messy, but just think if there were only the usual dirt. You could clean this whole behemoth in a few hours."

"And have it crawling with demons a few hours later," muttered Cullen. "Reaching across the Veil to clean a carpet, especially when a mage isn't present, is the height of foolishness."

When they'd asked Dorian about the risk, he'd only raised an eyebrow. "It's a mere whisper of power. Nothing complex. Nothing that might tear or weaken the fabric between worlds. And I'll be here, if you need me."

"But why risk it?" asked Maxwell. "You use slaves. Surely you don't care about saving them work."

"Why wouldn't we? For us, slaves are no different from a well-trained southern servant. Only we take responsibility for their full care, not only their employment. It's no good to work them to death. Besides, the Trevelyans likely wanted their servants to be efficient. My father was no different. Slaves are expensive. The fewer of them needed to complete a task, the less expensive they are," said Dorian. "You seem to be under the impression that we became rich through owning slaves, but I assure you that only the rich can truly afford them in the first place these days. At least in any number."

"Unless one mistreats them," said Cassandra.

"Yes," said Dorian, a little impatiently. "When one mistreats one's fellow creatures, suddenly the obstacles of the world are removed. Whether the mistreatment is owner to slave, mage to mage, husband to wife, or soldier to soldier, exploitation so often results in benefits for the exploiters. That doesn't make it acceptable nor practiced by those whose morals remain intact. The Pavuses became wealthy through marriage, magic, and the correct influence in the correct place. In the distant past, I'm sure my ancestors stepped on many people to further their name, as did the Pentaghasts and the Trevelyans. But they're all dead, whereas I am not. The people attached to the Alexius manor were fairly treated. And my father did no less when he was alive. He preferred to build an empire on my back, not those of his slaves."

Cullen said quietly, "We saw a slaver's caravan on the way here. They were brutalized. When people are bought and sold, they lose their dignity."

"We are all bought and sold, Commander," said Dorian, eyes glittering. "We merely argue about the currency. However, if you're asking if I condone forcible slavery, stealing children from their beds to be sold into service, I do not. I'd be happy to burn down any of the black market slave auctions we come across as proof of my disdain. But I won't apologize for the entirety of my culture, wholesale. Many of my more practical lessons were exercises in inventing new ways of using magic to benefit the slave population. My mother installed these cleaning spells personally, and my father ensured their safe usage. We aren't barbarians. Not all of us."

Maxwell had called a halt to the discussion at that point, as Dorian's tenuous self-control was clearly crumbling under their questioning, but as he and Cullen worked he thought more deeply on the issue. His mind still rebelled against the idea of a man being able, or encouraged, to sell his entire future for the comfort of the present. But it was hard to deny that personal control was traded for security all the time. Tevinter was simply more explicit about it. Perhaps there was a compromise there. A way to shorten contracts but keep the nature of the relationship in place. Another stone on the path to peace between them.

"Benign magic leads to malignant magic without supervision," said Cullen in the present. "These particular spells may be safe, but who determines that? The mages who create them? Convenient. And trusting. The Chantry may not always have the right of things, but mages given free rein are as likely to trample a populace as lift it up."

Maxwell sighed. And there was the rub. Truthfully, he could get all of Thedas to agree on slavery, but it wouldn't much matter as long as the Imperium let their mages rule.

* * *

Just as they were finishing up, Varric and Sera returned with the rest of their goods, helpfully carried by merchant slaves that Sera was badgering incessantly. Without much response, Maxwell couldn't help but notice.

When they left, she kicked the door frame with a grunt. "I don't get it, yeah? The only ones I can get to talk to me are the humans, and they mostly just call me stupid names. The elves are all quiet and buttoned up even though they're obviously pissed off. Be honest. Do I have something in my teeth or something?"

"Maybe you're just not elfy enough for them," said Varric.

"Shut it you. I'm trying to work something out here."

"Don't strain anything."

Maxwell rustled through the trunks for his clothes, but he spared a minute to call behind him for peace. Dorian sidled up next to him and poked through their wares with a weary sigh. "You sold all of my things for this grimcrackery? Thank the Maker the Inquisition has never needed to rely on its bartering skills for funding."

"Not all of your things," said Maxwell, trying to find a smile somewhere between lecherous and comforting. And failing. "I kept Leliana's birthday outfit. I liked that one."

"Did you?" asked Dorian. "I can't say I recall any particular enthusiasm for it."

He said it with a knowing smirk, and Maxwell straightened up slowly. "Put it on again tonight and I'll show you," he said in a low voice. "Trust me, it will be unforgettable."

But instead of the anticipation he'd been hoping for, or even the triumphant victory, Dorian's dark eyes only showed fear. Maxwell ran a hand through his hair and growled softly as he turned back to the trunk. This really was impossible. "Or don't. Whatever you want," he said. "Your things are by the stairs, I think. Cullen can help you carry them wherever they need to go."

"A show of strength we can all enjoy," said Dorian. In a quieter voice, he added, "I'm sorry if I'm disappointing you."

A hint of shame mixed into the unending pit of Maxwell's frustration, but he didn't look up as he said, "It's fine. There's no law that says anyone has to want to sleep with the Inquisitor." _It's just that I thought that you wanted even more than that. Traynor has a lot to answer for._

"Maxwell," Dorian began.

"Enough," he said. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He was here to help. He wasn't here to get a man's pants off. "I'm a grown man. I've gone to bed alone before, and I can do it again. There are a dozen bedrooms in this place. I'll survive."

There was a long pause beside him, and Maxwell's memory helpfully filled it with the memory of falling asleep with the mage in his arms and the joy of waking up to those magical hands moving over his skin. He hadn't understood until now how much he'd been looking forward to that again. His jaw tightened. Why had he done this to himself?

"I was hoping -" said Dorian.

Cullen rushed into the room, interrupting whatever the Tevinter man's hopes had been. "There are people at the gate. Through the gate. They're armed," he said.

Maxwell swore and ran to the entryway with Dorian hot on his heels. When they peered out the window at the procession marching up the drive, Dorian whistled. "Well, well. The Archon himself. With a Templar escort. Someone got the wrong date for the memorial service, it seems."

"Which one is the Archon?" asked Maxwell, craning his neck to see over the armored phalanx.

"The one who looks like a damp towel with none of its charms."

Varric snorted below them, and Dorian looked down. "All of you need to get out of sight," he said. "I'll handle this."

Maxwell frowned. "No. I'm not going to let you face them alone."

"Truly noble of you, Inquisitor, but I'll be much safer without you than with you," said Dorian. "I have standing here. Citizenship. You're an invader who's a hairsbreadth away from being an enemy of the state."

"He's right," said Cassandra. When Maxwell hissed through his teeth, she added quickly, "But we can be waiting in case anything happens."

"Yes, yes, stand waiting in the wings like the legendary hero you are," said Dorian. He turned to Maxwell and gave him a winning smile. "It's your most attractive look, you know."

Maxwell settled back, slightly mollified. "All of my looks are attractive."

Dorian laughed, a sound of pure amusement that had Maxwell's heart fluttering in his chest in a very soppy, unheroic way. The man's whiskey-colored skin crinkled slightly at the eyes, his teeth gleamed white in the streaming sunlight, and the rogue sparkle in his expression was a secret that they shared together. And just like that, Maxwell remembered why he'd done this to himself. Dorian was untouchably gorgeous when he was pleased.

"You'll get no argument from me," said Dorian. He leaned over to kiss Maxwell's cheek.

The shock of the affection was enough to silence him, especially when Dorian stepped towards the door without a second glance. He called behind him, "I'll whistle if I need rescuing."

* * *

As he made his way to the entrance, Dorian prayed fervently that wherever his guests secreted themselves, it would be out of earshot of the door. While it would be somewhat distinguishing to be arrested by Archon Radonis himself, it would be much less so to have half of the Inquisition high command arrested alongside him.

It was a slim hope that Maxwell would be able to resist playing the hero, not with the extra gallantry he'd adopted since his arrival in Tevinter, but it was the only hope they had.

Dorian threw open the door before the group arrived and leaned against the door frame, the better to project his voice out of the house. "Archon! Dorian Pavus. You may not remember me. While my father would have been extraordinarily touched to see the extent of your grief at his passing, I'm afraid I haven't gotten around to scheduling any sort of remembrance ceremony. But rest assured you were always at the very top of the invitation list."

Radonis said nothing, which was hardly unusual. An older man who'd become Archon only at middle-age, he'd achieved that goal by never saying a word before he understood the lay of the land.

A Knight-Captain stepped forward instead. "Altus Pavus. We've received word of intruders entering this estate."

"Just me, I'm afraid. Your diligence does the Templar Order vast credit, however. Murders may go unsolved, even wholly uninvestigated, but no home will be subject to squatting on your watch."

The soldier narrowed his eyes, and Dorian tried not to rue his impulsive mouth as he smiled winsomely. The warrior said through clenched teeth, "While we're here, then, we can settle the matter of transfer of property. If you'll produce your birthright, we'll update the Magisterium's records and leave you to your grief."

The Archon's eyes lightened, just slightly, and Dorian affected an apologetic look while he sighed internally. He'd suspected it was coming, but he'd hoped, somehow, that no one here knew about his lapse in judgment. He should have know that merchant wouldn't have kept his mouth shut. "You know how it is with packing," he said, shaking his head. "The rush, and the mess, and of course one always leaves something behind. Unfortunately the Pavus birthright seems to be that thing. I've written to the Inquisition, of course, to ask them to send it along, but they're quite busy planning their next world-shaking move. It may be weeks before they reply."

"So you are, in technical fact, trespassing on this property."

"In technical fact, so is he," said Dorian, nodding to Radonis. "His presence is not required for this. But the world is so dreary when it focuses only on technicalities."

The Archon smiled, paper-thin and amused, and Dorian played his final card. "But I'm a reasonable man, or so some would say. I understand your concerns. To aid the letter of the law, I will move back to the Alexius estate - my estate - until this whole business can be sorted out."

"A reasonable solution indeed," said Radonis in his resonant, bass voice. The man looked like a sponge, but when he spoke, it was obvious why he'd been elected Archon. Maxwell wasn't the only man with a magnetic voice in Thedas. "Unfortunately, the gate guards have reported a dispute regarding the Alexius property. A distant cousin of the family has come to lay claim to the estate personally. A Thom Alexius."

Dorian blinked. "There is no such person," he said, cursing himself.

"He seemed very confident in his name," said the Archon. Because he was a good mage and a better politician, his face showed no trace of the laughter he was almost certainly suppressing.

"Even if he is real," said Dorian, reaching under his shirt, "that birthright remains in my possession, willingly, and it cannot be taken by words alone."

"Very true. But given the unusual nature of the inheritance, and the many treacheries of the family against our homeland, we've considered it best to be certain. The Magisterium has seized the property until this new claimant can be found and questioned."

A very neat trap indeed. "A magister's house can't be seized in that way," said Dorian, praying the man had had some kind of brain injury recently.

"True enough. The magisters do indeed enjoy protections beyond the usual citizen. But, you may have forgotten that you are not a magister. The Inquisition's revelation of Gereon's perfidy was quite actionable. Even the Chantry agreed that the office had been sundered beyond the pale, and the Alexius name was stripped of its seat," said Radonis. "And now that the office of a magister is a holy one, that standard will become even stricter."

Dorian's jaw dropped. "Magister? A holy office?"

"But of course, you've been away. Yes, the Divine received guidance, from beyond the Veil, that we have not been venerating our serving leaders to the extent required by the Chants. A vote rectified that situation."

"How nice for them. And such a clear directive from our distant god. No signs or portents at all!"

Radonis smiled. "Yes, the Imperium has indeed been blessed beyond measure thanks to our adherence to the true Chantry."

Dorian almost felt the heat of Cassandra's rising anger behind him, and he knew they were only a step away from some sort of battle on his father's front porch. He said quickly, "I believe we have wandered somewhat from the point. Namely that I, apparently, have had all of my homes taken from me, and possibly my citizenship."

 _Just arrest me,_ he thought. _Before this all goes to the Void._

On cue, the Knight-Captain coughed. "Perhaps you'll be so good as to come with us to discuss that at the administration building."

Excellent. "Of course. Let it never be said I don't respect the laws of my country," said Dorian with a bow.

He knew he'd made it too easy by the slight lift of the Archon's eyebrows, but he almost had the door closed behind him when he heard "Dorian!" accompanied by the sound of running feet.

Dammit.

Maxwell pulled the door open with his usual energy and grinned broadly at the assembled crowd. "Thank the Maker! I thought I'd never find this," he said. "My apologies for the delay, sers."

Before Dorian could say a word, Maxwell raised his anchored hand. It sparked with dangerous, idiotic magic, but Dorian's eyes were drawn to the amulet instead. An amulet he'd sold and lost forever, now somehow dangling from the Inquisitor's finger like he'd picked it up at a market stall on the journey, along with a souvenir statue. Maxwell took advantage of Dorian's speechlessness to drape it over his neck, not so subtly caressing his shoulder as he drew away.

"There. You look perfect," said Maxwell with a wink. He turned back to their visitors. "How rude of me, I haven't introduced myself. Maxwell Trevelyan. I'm so impressed with your wonderful city."

* * *

On the one hand, this was insanely risky, an unarmored, unarmed Inquisitor meeting the Archon of Tevinter and a host of Templar soldiers in the middle of Minrathous. Maxwell was a good fighter, Dorian knew from experience, but even he had his limits, and this was well-beyond them.

On the other hand, it was almost worth it to see the Archon at a loss.

The Knight-Captain covered him once more. " _The_ Trevelyan?"

Dorian subtly pulled the Fade to him when the Templars moved their hands to their weapons.

Maxwell only nodded easily. "I'm afraid so," he said. He lifted his glowing hand once more and let it spark into the day. "It's difficult to deny. But the hand certainly helps distinguish me from the crowd. An average citizen raised to heights that are beyond him needs that kind of help, I've found."

Despite his fear, Dorian couldn't help but think that this tall, broad, charismatic, gorgeous man standing in front of them all claiming to be average and _not_ being struck down by fire from the sky was proof enough for anyone that he'd truly been sent by the Maker.

"Of course, you'll never have that problem, Archon," said Maxwell after a brief pause to soak in the expected admiration. He walked forward and reached out his unmarked hand in the Marcher style. A style of greeting that Maxwell never actually used, but Dorian supposed he had his reasons.

Mostly suicidal ones, as the Templars all drew their swords and pointed them threateningly in his direction. Dorian pulled the Fade closer, but Maxwell ignored them all. "A pleasure to meet you, Archon Radonis. I've heard a lot about you."

"And I you, of course," said Radonis, reaching out to touch the proffered hand gingerly. "The Inquisitor is writ large across the history of the world. But tell me, when did you arrive in Minrathous? The guards usually report such exalted guests as yourself to my office, so that we can provide the welcome your name deserves."

Maxwell waved his hand, trailing Rift magic behind it like a cat's tail. "Oh, I never bother with that kind of thing. Especially when my business is personal. I'm here as a tourist only," he said. He stepped back and threw his arm around Dorian's shoulder.

Dorian resisted the urge to light the arm on fire.

"Dorian spoke so highly of Tevinter, and Minrathous in particular, that I jumped at the opportunity to deliver his amulet myself. I've been nearly everywhere in Thedas, trying to mend the Veil, but never this far north. It's breathtaking," said Maxwell, still talking like they were at a dinner party instead of being threatened by sharp metal. "Of course, I say I'm a tourist, but if there are any Rifts in the area, or any instability in the Fade that the Magisterium hasn't been able to deal with, I'd be happy to provide my services."

The Archon's face stayed pleasantly neutral, a sure sign that he was still off-balance. "A generous offer."

"The Inquisition is a generous organization. And friendly," said Maxwell. "Though the new Magister Pavus has been the invaluable link in the strengthening chain of our relations." He paused, shaking his head artfully. "But there I go, talking politics. This isn't the time for any of that. Don't you agree, Archon?"

The other man shifted, just slightly, then said, "Very wisely put, Inquisitor." The Templars lowered their weapons slowly at the Archon's signal. "The right time is always important to find. And, of course, this is now Magister Pavus's home. His guests are his to command and protect."

"What if it's a fake?" asked the Knight-Captain suspiciously, staring at the amulet.

Dorian could have told him that only the real thing felt this choking, but Maxwell and Radonis only smiled identical smiles at each other. Radonis waggled a finger slightly at his hip, and the amulet burned bright blue for an instant, followed by an answering glow from the house around them.

"Answer enough," said Radonis. "Magister Pavus, I expect you'll be attending the legislative reception tomorrow evening? For the closing of the most recent session." The Archon tipped his head to Maxwell. "Your guest would be most welcome."

"I'll have to look at my calendar," said Dorian, finally finding his voice. "Social engagements do tend to pile up after a long journey, you know."

Radonis smiled and turned away, and Maxwell watched them all the way to the gate with an appraising look before he led Dorian back into the house. As soon as the door was closed, the warrior trapped Dorian against it neatly. "That man is smart," he said, with the merest suggestion of irritation in his voice. "I don't like that in an opponent."

Dorian's voice was laced with much more irritation than that. "Smarter than you, that's certain. What in the name of the Maker were you thinking, going out there?"

"I was saving you," said Maxwell. He looked down and a perfect smile put a dimple on his face. "It's what I do."

"By letting the whole of the Imperium know that you've somehow infiltrated the city, alone and defenseless? It will be open season from the instant Radonis finds a scribe and a flock of ravens."

"Worried about me?" Maxwell was infuriatingly smug above him. "That's sweet, Dorian. But there's no need. First, I'm not defenseless in the least. Second, they won't dare harm me, not openly. The Archon would never believe I came here as unaccompanied as I did, and the Nightingale's looming presence is enough to terrify any nation. Third, I have a holy magister protector now to whisk me away from any lingering danger," he said. A considering expression crossed his face. "I wonder if I should be worried that I'm a little turned on by your new divinity."

"Yes," said Sera behind them. "Ugh. The Chantry's for believing in things and being a big glow in the sky, not for getting your jollies off."

Dorian peered around the man who still had him pinned to the door and saw all four of them arrayed with various expressions of annoyance. Cassandra was practically vibrating with fury, though from the tone of Cullen's soothing noises as he rubbed her shoulder, it was more to do with the new Chantry edict than Maxwell's idiocy.

"They cannot simply claim an entire group of people as holy emissaries," the Seeker said through gritted teeth.

"You did," said Varric mildly. He held up his hands when she whirled on him. "Well, one guy anyway."

"That was different!" she snarled. "There was… evidence. Reasons that the Herald might be a holy gift from the Maker. It was not for political expediency."

"Not only," said Varric. "I'll give you that. But it definitely didn't hurt."

Dorian let them snap at each other as he looked back up to the still-thoughtful Inquisitor. Nothing about that face meant anything good. "Where did you get this?" asked Dorian, reaching up to touch the amulet that was somehow heavier than the Alexius one he always wore.

Maxwell's eyes came back from the distance. "After you left, I found a socially grasping merchant and persuaded him to help the Inquisition."

"Why would you take the time to do that if you thought I was in danger?"

"Not now," said Maxwell. "The last time. Two years ago. I didn't want your inheritance in unknown hands."

Dorian narrowed his eyes. "You wanted it in yours instead?"

"Of course not. I got it for you," said Maxwell, but his voice didn't sound as confident as usual. "I was going to give it to you when you came back to Skyhold."

"I was at Skyhold for some time before it all went to shit," said Dorian. "Did it simply slip your mind?"

"The time was never right."

Dorian said nothing. What sort of time was needed for a man to say, "Here's the thing you sold, like an idiot, in a fit of pique. Don't be so stupid next time, okay?" He'd had longer conversations with stablehands. More likely it had been a hidden carrot, to keep him in line. Both a carrot and a stick combined, really. He wondered if it had been Leliana's idea.

He also wondered what Maxwell would say if he knew that the one bright spot about the whole mess was that Dorian had known he wouldn't ever have to be a magister.

After a pause, Maxwell finally said, "Are you angry with me?"

Dorian looked at the Inquisitor's face and saw that it was a true question, alongside a fear that he almost never showed. Once when the enemy had marched towards Haven in endless waves. Once when he'd stepped into the Well of Sorrows and accepted what it held. And once when Dorian had stormed out of the tavern in Redcliffe after meeting his father, furious and wild.

The lurking vulnerability softened Dorian's heart against his will, and he cursed Maxwell's ability to find the right weapon for every fight. "Not for this," he said, touching the amulet again. "But for announcing your presence to the Archon? That I may never forgive you for."

Perversely, that only made the Inquisitor smile in relief. "That was necessary. It's all part of my plan."

"What plan? The plan to be the biggest idiot in all of Thedas?"

"You wound me. No, it's much better than that. But some of it's secret."

Meaning all of it was non-existent. The Inquisitor had had the same kind of plan every time they'd walked into a new cave to be attacked by enormous spiders.

"Besides," said Maxwell in a cheerful voice, "you're much too beautiful to be locked away. At least I was going to let you go."

"Be serious," snapped Dorian.

The Inquisitor, contrary to the end, smiled more broadly. "Never. Not when I've finally figured out what we else we're going to do, now that we're here."

"Solve the murders?" Cullen offered.

"Discover the extent of their Chantry's new heresy?" asked Cassandra.

"Build contacts for the Nightingale to exploit?" Varric added, but he didn't sound hopeful.

Sera clapped her hands and hopped up to sit on an end table. "Get that rich tit to go out in the street in only his smalls?"

Maxwell shook his head, his green eyes gleaming as he studied Dorian. "No," he said. "I'm going to make you Archon."


	13. Lingering Mark

The argument lasted for hours, long past anyone but Maxwell and Dorian's endurance. Eventually Cullen banished them to the family wing bedrooms, to at least give the rest of them a fighting chance at sanity. Cole had invisibly dropped off some new missives from the Inquisition at some point in the morning, though Maker only knew where he'd gotten them, and the rest of the Inquisition gratefully fell on them as Dorian led him out of the room.

The mage walked backwards, still arguing, as they climbed the stairs. "You can't simply make someone Archon like you would buy them a hat," he said heatedly. "There are laws, factions, political minefields… Magisters don't even become Archon!"

"And you think I can't handle all of that?" asked Maxwell. "I got the Chantry to work with the Qunari once, before I blew that alliance to hell for the Chargers, anyway. I got a career Templar and a staunch rebel mage to dance at a ball together. I got my father to call me the Herald of Andraste, in public, with witnesses, the last time I was in Ostwick. I think I can manage the stuffed shirts of this little council."

Dorian threw open the door to his room with so much force the other doors rattled.

"If you think that's all they are, it only proves that you have no conception of how to deal with them," he said as they entered. "These are powerful mages, not childish Marcher nobles baying around a table. The powerless ones will only laugh at you. The ones with true ambition will hope to sacrifice you in some blood ritual and use whatever power your anchor gives them to conquer the world in the name of the old Imperium."

Maxwell snorted, but Dorian didn't look amused. "This is the time for you to leave," he added. "Not attend a government ball. One that will kill you, more likely than not."

"And if I left, would you come with me?"

"Yes," said Dorian without hesitation. "Absolutely, if that's what it took to get you to abandon this idiotic plan."

Maxwell frowned. That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He re-oriented. "But what about your parents' killer? Changing Tevinter for the better? The legacy of your country?"

"What about it?"

"It's all you talked about!" said Maxwell, throwing his hands in the air and pacing. "Every time I came to that little alcove in the library, there you'd be, all excited and full of enthusiasm. 'The Imperium has the potential for greatness, if only I can unlock the shackles we've wound around our own feet for centuries.' Or 'Maxwell, come and look! I found another ancient, dusty, unreadable tome that explains the glory of our origins. Tevinter is the cradle of all civilization in Thedas, the bosom from which the south suckled its first life so long ago.'"

Dorian was staring at him with undisguised horror. " _That's_ what you think I sound like?" he asked.

"That was practically verbatim."

Dorian crossed his arms and leaned against a low bookshelf. "We'll save that dreadful inaccuracy for another time, I suppose. To stick to the issue at hand, my parents will always be dead. Tevinter is impossible to change. And the only legacy that's of any importance to the world is the Inquisition. Which requires you. The Inquisitor," he said. "And your head on a pike over Skyhold doesn't exactly qualify as strong leadership."

The huge room wasn't nearly enough to contain the massive circuit Maxwell wanted to walk. "My head will remain firmly attached to my body in all futures, thank you."

"You have more enemies than Leliana has shoes," said Dorian. The exasperation in his voice might have been cute, if Maxwell hadn't been so ready to punch something. The mage lifted his hand to tick items off on his fingers as he spoke. "The Qunari. The Fereldens, secretly. The Nevarrans, even more secretly. Potentially this "Wolf" person, whoever that might be. Whatever Orlesian nobles you brought low during the war. And, of course the Imperium."

"If the Imperium is already my enemy, then what does it matter?"

"Because right now you're just a usual enemy, meaning someone who is not Tevinter but believes he's equally important," said Dorian. "This is a grievous offense, but given that the Venatori have been officially denounced and Corypheus condemned, no more grievous than usual. The Imperium may go to war with you, but we go to war with everyone when the opportunity presents itself. It's rarely personal.

"But if you walk into the Magisterium and attempt a coup with me, a reformer and pariah, as your figurehead, well. Things will suddenly become much more personal."

Maxwell pivoted around the sitting area. "The more enemies you have, the easier it is to get them to fight each other. It's so much safer than just having one," he said with a deliberate grin at the still-annoyed mage. "And you won't be a figurehead. You're my inside man. You know who to press and how. The people in the Magisterium must hate each other. All noble coalitions do. The trick will be to get them to focus on that. Well, after I remove Radonis. Then they'll be so busy infighting that you can swoop in and charm their pants off. Metaphorically. They'll be voting with their hearts and settling old grudges and you'll win the vote for Archon in a landslide. Magister or no."

"As simple as that?"

"Simpler, probably," said Maxwell, shrugging. "Countries are basically giant, bickering families, and families are the easiest things to steer in the world. But it's always best to pretend there's some doubt. Otherwise people think you're a braggart."

Dorian folded his arms skeptically. "Most families don't have the power to actually make the other members explode in gory death. They merely wish to," he said. "These are the most powerful mages in the entirety of Thedas, you realize."

"You're better."

"I am certainly not," said Dorian. "Loathe as I am to admit that I have any equals, much less superiors, I am nowhere close to the strongest mage in the world."

"Of course you are," said Maxwell impatiently. "I've seen you in action. People have talked to me about you, prompted and unprompted. And Leliana knows more about you than probably anyone in the history of the world, including Felix. You're a prodigy. Necromancy usually kills its students, and there hasn't been a true master of it in decades. Until you. So don't tell me you aren't the strongest. Even without blood magic. If there are no masters of your discipline, then there are no masters of how to counter it. You'll be fine."

The mage narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How do you know all of that? You don't know anything about magic."

"I don't know how it works. That doesn't mean I don't know anything about it at all," said Maxwell. "Come on! I can do this. You can do this. And then Tevinter can change, we'll finally be able to hammer out a peace that doesn't have knives buried inside of it, and Thedas will have the strongest unified alliance it's seen since that Exalted March."

That brought up a new thought, and he grinned excitedly as he stopped in his tracks. "Maybe we can even combine the two Chantries. Change theology for the better. We already have a mage on the Sunburst Throne. There's overlap there."

"You're a lunatic," said Dorian, hand to his forehead. "An absolute madman. I can't believe anyone lets you run the world." He sighed. "Has it ever occurred to you that I don't want to be Archon?"

"Of course you do," said Maxwell, confused. "You want to reform your country."

"Give a few speeches, perhaps, sleep with the pivots of power, quietly convince a few of the right people to a new way of thinking," said Dorian. "Placing yourself atop the pile and shouting down edicts to the lower levels is your _modus operandi_ , not mine."

Maxwell started pacing again. "That will take too long. The direct route is always best," he said. He spun to point at Dorian threateningly. "And I don't want any of those stupid chess metaphors. This isn't chess."

"Obviously. Chess has actual rules. Strategy," said Dorian. He cocked his head slightly. "Tell me, how much of this new plan appeals because the Inquisition will have an Archon under its thumb?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I think this conversation is all the proof anyone needs that I have absolutely no control over you," said Maxwell, his manufactured calm bleeding away. "You'd be the most stubborn world leader I'd have to deal with by far, and I've had to manage Empress Celene."

Dorian laughed, but it was dry and humorless. "So this has nothing to do with total and complete world domination?"

"Is that what you think _I_ sound like?" asked Maxwell heatedly. "I want peace. The only reason it looks like I'm after domination is that this world is dying to tear itself apart, and holding it together requires a lot of control. And, if you haven't noticed, you've threatened that peace very nicely, you and your country. Orlais _will_ go to war with Tevinter, now. Your Chantry has blasphemed so egregiously that Vivienne will call another Exalted March as soon as she can muster her forces. Holy mages with Divine appointment?"

That shut Dorian up, at least briefly, and Maxwell pressed his advantage. "More importantly, it's what you want. No matter what you say, I know it. The way you talked about change… And look at you. Look at who you are. You were born to do this, Dorian."

"You really were corresponding with my father. He was also very sure about what I wanted. In fact, all of this is very, very familiar."

"Fuck your father!" said Maxwell, freezing in place. Dorian's eyes widened in shock, and Maxwell regretted that he was absolutely incapable of stopping. "If you run from this to spite him, because you're worried that fulfilling his desires now will mean he was right about you then, then you're no more free of his control than you ever were. Who cares what his plan for your life was? What matters is _you_."

"So I should bend to your will, instead of his? Will that somehow be better?"

Maxwell gripped the chair back in front of him so hard that he felt it cracking underneath his hands. When he felt master of himself again, he strode to the walls without comment and ripped down the nearest picture he could find. A sweet-looking woman's face sheared violently in two, and he bit off his words with extra force as he moved on to the next. "I want you to get what you want. Not for your future legacy, but for today. If you think that makes me the same as your father, then you understand nothing about me."

Paper fell to the carpet around him as he worked another loop of the room, Dorian motionless and silent the whole time. Watching. He always watched.

"The only thing stopping you is you, Dorian. And I won't let you do this to yourself, do you understand? I won't let you! I'll push and badger and be an obnoxious pain in the ass if that's what it takes. I've done it before. Some might say it's my true nature."

When he found himself in front of the largest picture, he paused and looked back at the Tevinter man. "Change it."

"No."

If someone had told him that he'd be trying to get Dorian to look at another undressed man before the week was out, Maxwell would have laughed, but he'd never felt further away from humor than this moment. "Do it. Be who you are, in this house."

Dorian breathed heavily, tight as a bowstring where he stood against the wall. In the center of things, yet not. Invested, but half-escaped. A man who only wanted to be noticed on his own terms.

"Why does this matter to you so much?" asked Dorian. "You could gain a foothold in Tevinter a thousand ways. Why place that powerful, glowing finger on my humble destiny?"

"Because you sacrificed everything to join my cause," said Maxwell, fists tight at his side. "You left your life behind and threw yourself into the fight, and I never had to give you a single, Maker-blessed thing to get you to stay. Everyone had their price, except for you. And then the one time you needed me to return that faith, I failed. Instead of offering my trust, and my support, I put you in jail. For no better reason than you got under my skin. That I was _annoyed_. Even before you left, that haunted me. It was all I could think about. You're all I've thought about, for weeks now."

Dorian made a small noise, but Maxwell had too much momentum to stop. "After you escaped, my advisors wanted to kill you if you didn't come back peacefully. And those were our allies! I might have murdered you with what I did, Dorian. Through the grace of the Maker you're still alive, but you're defeated and lost, and that's my fault, too. I've been trying to make up for it, all day I've been trying, but there's nothing you'll let me do to help. I've tried everything. I don't know what to do. I'm blundering around like a Qunari in a crystal shop and making everything worse, when the only thing I want is for you to fucking forgive me."

Maxwell finally subsided and looked away from that painfully handsome face. Dorian looked startled, and more than a little confused, but he didn't look very forgiving.

Eventually the mage said quietly, "You've been trying to atone for a whole day? That must have been exhausting."

Dammit. "Go ahead, make fun," muttered Maxwell. He struck out towards the door before he destroyed some precious childhood heirloom, but Dorian moved to block him gracefully.

"I'm quite serious," said Dorian, the smile in his eyes belying his words. "Considering the emotional needs of those around you, so constantly, would have been almost more than you could bear. My poor, tired hero. Though I am flattered to rate such effort."

"Very funny. Varric's been a terrible influence on you. Let me go."

"I don't think I will."

That cultured accent dropped into a more rumbling range, and Maxwell looked at him in surprise.

Dorian smiled slowly, and his eyes were full of lightning. "I've thought of something I want."

Maxwell closed his eyes to hold back his rising hope. "And what's that?"

"Double occupancy of this room, tonight," Dorian answered.

"You were supposed to say me," said Maxwell, a little annoyed. But not annoyed enough to push away the fingers revealing and teasing the skin at his waist.

"You're an arrogant prick," said Dorian, but his tones were soft instead of accusing. As soft as the lips that brushed the skin of his cheek, so delicately they might not have been there.

But when Maxwell chased that teasing mouth, the mage pulled away. Maxwell opened his eyes again and nearly groaned at the wicked, challenging look on Dorian's face. He returned it, stare for stare. "But you like arrogant pricks, don't you?"

"I'll put up with them, when they look like you."

Dorian's questing fingers hooked into Maxwell's waistband, tugging him towards the bed with an alluring urgency, and Maxwell pulled off his own shirt as they moved just to see Dorian's breath hitch. Which it did, a sharp inhalation that set Maxwell on fire. He looked down when Dorian's tanned, graceful hand ran up the planes of his stomach and to his chest, and Maxwell hummed appreciation when it traced a line around his nipple.

"I always wonder that you don't have more scars," said Dorian, his eyes following behind his fingers curiously. "A hero should have more evidence of his heroics."

Maxwell laughed quietly, and Dorian smiled, his gaze still on the bared skin below him. "Only the mediocre heroes leave the evidence on themselves," said Maxwell. "Now stop talking and kiss me already. You're killing me."

The mage's perfect eyebrow lifted in mock surprise, though his hands wound around Maxwell's back to knead the flesh they found there. "And what of all this talk about what I want?"

With battlefield speed, Maxwell pulled Dorian closer until there was barely space at all between them. "I told you. I know what you want," he said. He hovered his mouth over the other man's, near enough that he could feel the tickling hair of his mustache. Near enough that their lips brushed when he spoke, driving him completely insane. He prayed he knew what he was talking about, or this was going to vault into the most frustrating night of his life. "You want me to be very, very bad."

A needy growl tore from somewhere deep in Dorian's throat, and he took Maxwell's mouth with surprising aggression. Gone was the playful, smirking man who always had an eye on the door. Gone was the man waiting to react, replaced by this solid wall of pure physical want.

Tongues tangled, fingers pressed, hands roved, fabric ripped. Each new touch to skin was an opportunity for fire and lightning, a place where Maxwell blazed. Clothing vanished with the ease of long practice, a blind striptease seen only by fingers and lips, and none of it was enough. It would never be enough, and Maxwell gripped Dorian's hips hard enough to bruise when the other man finally removed the last layer of cloth between them.

By the time they fell back on to the bed in a confused heap, Dorian's hand was between them, stroking Maxwell's aching cock with the same addictive, masculine beauty he displayed in everything else. Being on the receiving end of his talented attentions was almost more pleasure than Maxwell could bear. And the eyes watching him, drinking him in as though he were the last bottle of wine in the world, didn't hurt either.

When he arched off of the bed, silently asking for more, Dorian complied, and the whole world went away within the skillful movement of his hand.

Maxwell had never known love could feel so savage. Sex, the glory of possessing another's body for just one, heated night, was often predatory. He'd ravished people, and been ravished in return, and every sigh and shout had been like meat to a hunter. But this was so much more than that. A need that went straight into the soul.

The thought of Dorian being his, irrevocably and always, brought Maxwell so close to the edge that he bit his lip until it bled. This wasn't how he wanted this to end, and he hadn't even touched the other man yet.

The mage slowed his movements, concern overlaying that dark wanting, and Maxwell reached his hand out to stroke his cheek. "Not yet," he said, and Dorian sighed. A tendril of healing curled around his finger, and Maxwell closed his eyes as it roved over his lip.

"Kiss me," he whispered, desperate for more contact, and Dorian stretched out over him and did as he was bid.

And suddenly, after so much diamond-hard need, it all changed.

Tears gathered under Maxwell's eyes, and he fought for control as Dorian explored his mouth with intoxicating softness. The mage took special care with his lips, nipping and pulling at them whenever he readjusted, guiding the sensations to a gentle place Maxwell hadn't known since his earliest experiments in Ostwick. He hadn't expected such fragility from Dorian, a man who made a friendly nod into an invitation to disrobe, but this tenderness felt more right than anything ever had between them.

Dorian's fingers tangled into his hair and tilted his head back for better access, and Maxwell pushed himself up to meet him with the same quiet force. He wanted more, Maker knew he did, but being kept on the edge of that wanting was its own kind of enjoyment. The only hint that the other man's desire remained was the way his hips rocked, rubbing his hard length along the curve of Maxwell's hip as they darkened and lightened and tasted.

Maxwell kept his own hands moving as well, tracing the muscles of Dorian's back with a barely-there touch, and he groaned when Dorian shivered over him.

"Are you okay?" Maxwell asked quietly when they broke for breath. Maxwell paused his movements, making the pressure of his fingers reassuring instead of teasing. It felt like they'd been joined this way for hours, simply learning to be with each other. But perhaps even that had been too much. He had to remember that Dorian was still hurting, no matter how well he hid it.

Dorian's solemn face said that he didn't know, but he answered glibly, "Of course. This bed hasn't seen this much bare flesh in a decade. Quite an achievement."

"We can stop."

That put a startled look on the other man's face, and he glanced down between them. "That may prove difficult," he said, laughing.

Maxwell chuckled as well, then leaned up to gently capture Dorian's mouth again. He let him go before he said, "But we still can."

"I'd forgotten what a gentleman you are. Your mother would be proud," said Dorian, a little reverently. He traced one of the few scars on Maxwell's chest idly, deep in thought. After a minute, he looked up and met Maxwell's eyes. "Is that what you want?"

"Is that a serious question?" asked Maxwell.

Dorian narrowed his eyes.

"I only ask because I'm naked with the most attractive man in Thedas, and he just made out with me in such a way that the only thing I'm capable of wanting is to be inside of him as soon as possible," said Maxwell, reveling in Dorian's half-smile.

He hissed in a breath when Dorian's hand wandered back to stroke him again. "So delicately put. Though I may disappoint, as that option won't be available tonight," said Dorian. "This is my childhood bedroom, not my considerably more decadent quarters in the Alexius estate. The oils and greases are all sadly out of reach."

"I have some in my belongings. I'll go get it," said Maxwell, a little sharply. The desire was returning, the need for Dorian to be _his_ coursing through him again, and the practiced hand on his cock was nothing compared to the memories that were never far from the surface.

"That might ruin the mood," murmured Dorian, leaning down to trace his tongue in an easy line from Maxwell's neck to his ear. He whispered, "Don't worry, my chivalrous Inquisitor, I have myriad skills. I'll leave you very satisfied."

Maxwell frowned even as his hips moved in time with the hand tormenting him. "I have no doubt. But I want this," he said, running his own hand down the mage's spine to cradle his ass. "Dorian. I need it. I'm begging you."

Everything stopped, and Dorian leaned away. "You say beg, but that sounded suspiciously like a command."

Maxwell propped himself up on his elbows. "It's not like we haven't done it before. Twice, as I recall, thanks to those potions. You enjoyed it."

"I did. But tonight, I want something else," said Dorian. His eyes were shaded and withdrawn as he added, more quietly, "It's too much."

"Too much what? Too much attachment?" snapped Maxwell. As though Dorian were taking any risks. All he had to do was stay. Just for a little while. For Maker's sake, Maxwell was the one who'd fallen in love, the most vulnerable position a man could be in. And love was no more eternal than lust, but it certainly meant Dorian had nothing to worry about.

He laughed to himself. Here he was, the great and powerful Inquisitor, lovelorn and utterly exposed to a man who was always poised to run. If anyone should be worried, it should be him.

Maxwell looked back up at the suddenly wary mage. He would have understood if Dorian was so overwhelmed by everything he'd been through that he wanted to stop entirely, but this arbitrary line in the sand was something different. This was just another way of escaping, wrapped in a stealthier package. "Is this some kind of test?"

"No," said Dorian, looking a little confused but mostly irritated. "Though if it were, I suspect you'd be failing it rather miserably."

Maxwell growled, then muttered, "I'm sure if Sergeant Traynor were here, you'd be singing a different tune."

The Tevinter mask slammed back into place so quickly it looked like magic. "So that's it," said Dorian. "All this talk of what I wanted, making up for past mistakes, rescuing the distressed and troubled member of your inner circle. Complete rubbish. This was never about me. This was about the almighty Inquisitor, worried that he wasn't the prettiest lady at the ball anymore." The mage rolled away, sending a sardonic glance over his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm sure all the boys still want to dance with you."

Maxwell sputtered as Dorian sorted out their clothing. His indignant protest was cut off when a shirt hit him in the face.

"I was very flattered when I thought you came to save all of me. I'm even more flattered now that I know you risked your life for my ass alone. There's perhaps no higher honor in the world than that. Once I spread the tale of how badly Maxwell Trevelyan craved it, I'll never want for partners again."

"I did come here for all of you," said Maxwell, throwing the shirt on the floor and standing up. "Dorian, I was worried sick about you. I still am. Ask the rest of them!"

"Why waste the energy? A carefully crafted lie is terribly boring to listen to, you know. Especially a jealous one."

Maxwell slapped the bedpost with his hand. "I am _not_ jealous."

Dorian sighed. "Obviously," he said. In a quieter voice, he added, "I can't believe I thought you were - that this would have changed."

"Change takes two sides," said Maxwell, low and insistent.

"Yes," said Dorian. "I know. Please go."

And that was that. There was no arguing with him if he was going to be so stubborn.

The mage didn't turn around while Maxwell put on his clothes, but he must have been paying close attention to sounds because as soon as Maxwell was at the door, Dorian asked, "I assume you still want me to become Archon?"

Unbelievable. Maxwell had just poured his heart out, and Dorian wanted to talk politics. "It's the smartest move," he said furiously. "For everyone."

"I'll think about it."

And with that, Maxwell flung open the door and left to find a bed.

* * *

Later that night Dorian lay in the darkness with the painful needles of unshed tears burning his eyes, just as he had so many times as a youth. Yet another person he'd almost dared to love who only saw him as tool to satisfy his own ego. Even Relienus had seen him more as a means to social mobility than some kind of life partner, though he at least had been honest about their mutual advantages. Too honest. It had made everything so much harder to deny when his father had found out.

Maxwell had almost had him convinced that this time would be different. His earnestness, and his feeble, sweet little efforts to be a friend and a lover. They'd seemed real. But he'd never changed. He never would. And Dorian had no one to blame but himself for refusing to learn that very easy lesson, over and over again.

If only Felix were still alive. He'd always helped Dorian find his way back when his heart was threatening to wander. He'd understood the nature of his friend. After the Inquisitor had left Redcliffe, Felix had met him often back in that Chantry, and he'd teased him mercilessly about his burgeoning interest in the Inquisition's emissary.

When Dorian had announced his intentions to go to Haven, just in case, Felix had smiled and said, "These southerners think that the Temple is the place where Andraste's spirit ascended to be with her lover. A holy place where eternal love was born for the divine." It had been a good day, health-wise, and the young man's eyes had sparkled in the Chantry light. "Watch yourself, Dorian. You know you're only a step away from godlike yourself."

He'd heard the warning, but he hadn't heeded it, and this was the price he had to pay.

Dorian chased sleep and tried not to look at the strip of moonlight on the wall, over the last picture that remained standing. The spell was very sensitive to his mood, and he knew that if he reached out to the Fade, the picture of his first love would now have green, piercing, very cold eyes.


	14. Cutting Words

"Tell me, what do you call this glorious creation? I've never seen a garment like it!"

Maxwell's conversational partner, the daughter of one of the Chantry-sourced magisters, giggled and dipped a curtsy as she explained the tedious origins of the ugliest gown Dorian had ever seen. He looked around the huge ballroom and wondered vaguely if anyone would comment if he fled into the night.

Of course, that would defeat the entire purpose of coming - namely to protect a foolish Inquisitor who would have gone to the party even if he had to duel the entirety of his inner circle to reach the door - but the longer the evening went on, the less Dorian cared. Maxwell had been back to his usual artless, cheerful self that morning, as though the night before hadn't happened at all, and his smiles were working Dorian's last nerve. Not the least because staying angry at the man was almost impossible when he turned them in his direction.

 _Focus_ , he told himself, and it seemed to work. While Maxwell wasn't actually looking at him, anyway.

The party itself was a true nightmare, though, with no way to focus it away. It was even worse than he'd imagined, being in the Archon's house. Shades of his neatly escaped future pressed in around him, and the familiar eyes that watched him were hooded and appraising. Dorian enjoyed being a pariah, of course. It was the only way to know that he was on the correct path. But it was less enchanting to swim among sharks when one was covered in blood, and he was well aware of how many of the guests' Venatori relatives he'd personally, and gleefully, killed.

Maxwell was, as usual, fitting right in.

"Magister Pavus," said a voice behind him, and he turned to see a taffeta-ensconced woman bearing down on him with a carefully social smile. A mover and shaker, clearly, but the perfectly made-up face was too generic to aid in memory.

Until she laid a finger to her lips in familiar irritation, and his eyes widened. "Livia?"

He saw Maxwell's head tilt slightly beside him, and he prayed to the Maker that the man wouldn't be embarrassing. As soon as they'd entered the party, Maxwell had begun acting like they were open lovers, with all of the possessive antics that implied. Dorian knew better than to contradict him so publicly, which would show exploitable weakness, but they were going to have a serious talk about boundaries and impositions once they were back home. And what the Imperium would and wouldn't tolerate in public. And about loving smiles that were absolutely uncalled for.

If they made it home without being murdered, that was.

Livia didn't notice any of it. "So you do know my face. Shocking, since the only thing I ever saw of you was your back."

"How could I forget such delicate manners?" said Dorian, bowing over her hand. "Tell me, did they ever find that livestock merchant to marry you off to, or was he looking for a lady who reminded him slightly less of his wares?"

She laughed, bell-like and false above the chatter around them. "Ah, Dorian, you were wise to restrict your tastes to the less refined segment of society. No woman would ever tolerate that ugly tongue. No, I secured a match with a son of the Cassius family, who succeeded his mother to the Magisterium just this year," she said. She tilted her head to the side in a convincing facsimile of surprise. "I believe he outranks you, in both standing and seniority."

"Felicitations on the achievement! I'm sure the oddsmakers were shocked," said Dorian. Maxwell was winding down his charm offensive with the giggling daughter, and Dorian felt him listening to every word. "Tell me, would that happen to be Ativus Cassius? I haven't seen him in years."

"Yes," said Livia, a little suspiciously. "He's just over there, talking to the Archon. They're personal friends. But we really shouldn't -"

"Oh, let's!" said Dorian. He put on his broadest grin. "After all, what better time to renew old acquaintances than at a party? And Radonis personally invited me. I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

Annoyingly, Maxwell managed to extract himself from conversation at the exact moment Dorian moved, and he subtly glared at the southern man as they made their way across the room. Maxwell only gave one of those infuriating smiles and ignored Livia's pointedly curious looks at their unexpected companion.

When they reached their target, Livia stopped politely and began to speak, but Dorian kept walking, putting a slight sway in his gait. "Ativus! How long has it been?" he asked. "Too long, I must say." He enfolded the surprised man in a hug, complete with a light kiss to the cheek, then stepped back with his hands still resting on his shoulders. "A shame. We were so very close, once."

The Cassius family had always been rich, for country gentry, but they'd never been subjected to the true rigors of societal games, and the red tinge on Ativus's face was enough to put a smirk on Dorian's. The man had grown up thin and weedy, but there were still remnants of the troubled, sensuous youth he'd been. They'd enjoyed several stolen little moments in a very ostentatious, very soundproof garden pavilion on the Cassius estate, and it was clear Ativus remembered them all well. He'd been a blushing virgin when Dorian had traveled there with his family, but he'd been upgraded to only blushing by the time the Pavuses had left.

That affair had been a mere diversion, nothing of substance, but Ativus had been a very sweet conquest.

And it was obvious why the marriage had been brokered. "But you've made a fine match in Livia," said Dorian. "Quite possibly the best partner either of you could have hoped for, I imagine!"

He stepped away from the silent man and the seething woman and smiled at the Archon, who seemed vaguely amused. "Thank you for bringing this invitation to my attention. The party is a delight."

Radonis inclined his head. "You honor me with your presence. And that of your companion."

Maxwell had been staring at Dorian and Ativus with a hint of pique in his eyes, but he stepped forward at the obvious cue and made a sweeping bow. "Thank you, Archon. As my date has clearly forgotten every semblance of his manners, allow me to introduce myself. Maxwell of House Trevelyan in the Free Marches. Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, Savior of Thedas, runner-up in this year's Grand Melee and three-time winner of the monthly drinking competition at Skyhold."

Dorian almost rolled his eyes. The introduction had been getting more and more elaborate as the night went on, but his audiences seemed taken with his charming grandiosity. Before long the rest of them were in deep conversation about the current state of the world while Dorian stood to the side and plotted another route out of the room. The talk, as always, turned to Dorian's vast contributions to the war effort and his heroic attempts to spread the goodwill of the Imperium in the southern countries, most of which were complete fabrication. Dorian tuned them out.

Until Maxwell's arm slipped around his waist and pulled him flush against his side. Dorian grunted in surprise, but the Inquisitor didn't even look at him. "So, Liv," he said, "I've heard that you were once engaged to this obscenely handsome man."

Once again, something that should have earned Maxwell a punch in the jaw only elicited a burst laughter from his audience. Perhaps it was the way he wore his hair.

"Quite a while ago," said Livia. "Rest assured it's water under the bridge. I feel it all worked out for the best. For us both." She wrapped her arms around her husband, who looked no less uncomfortable, but at least his face was back to the proper color.

"Oh, I agree," said Maxwell, giving Dorian an affectionate squeeze. "I would have hated to have to duel you for him."

"At this point I'd let her win," muttered Dorian where only Maxwell could hear.

The taller man looked down at him with a warning smile. "Not that he makes it easy. I'm the most powerful man in the South, but Dorian never makes me stop working for him."

"That sounds like him," said Livia acidly. "His father complained constantly about his lack of social pliability. I hope that will change now that he's been given so much responsibility."

Dorian stiffened, and Maxwell rubbed his thumb in small circles at his waist. "Well, fortunately you won't be saddled with his care. I suppose the woman I spoke to earlier was right - him leaving you was the best thing that could have ever happened to you." He reached out with his free hand and grabbed a drink from a nearby slave's tray. "To the victories lurking in seeming defeat!"

"Who said that?" asked Livia, steadfastly keeping her own glass still while storms rolled across her face. "Dorian did _not_ leave me. I was the one who dissolved the marriage contract."

Maxwell looked down at him questioningly, and Dorian nodded. Maxwell affected a look of embarrassed surprise. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know. Dorian never talks about his past. I've been pumping people for his secrets, but clearly they can't all be trusted. As to who it was, I can't quite remember the woman's name. She was young, wore her hair sort of over her head," he said, gesturing vaguely. "A blondeish-brown. Large nose."

"Was it Horatia Issar?"

The Inquisitor furrowed his brow, then nodded, pleased. "I think it was!"

"I see. Excuse us," said Livia, dragging her husband behind her as she sought out her new prey.

Radonis smiled quietly when they were gone. "You have an unusual style, Your Grace," he said. "Do you play chess?"

"Poorly. I've been told I don't plan enough steps ahead," said Maxwell, laughing. "I'm better with Wicked Grace, which a hoy man probably shouldn't admit." His green eyes glittered as he took a drink and added, "I'm surprised you serve Orlesian wine here. I would have thought Tevinter would be seen as superior to all."

But Radonis only shrugged. "How can superiority be assured if we never allow the inferior to be observed? I must thank you once again for coming, Inquisitor Trevelyan."

An enormous man called for the Archon's attentions, and they made their farewells with a minimum of hostility. Maxwell released Dorian and muttered, "Dammit, I kind of like him." He drained his glass. "Did you want some?"

"I make it a rule not to drink vintages from countries that wish to draw and quarter me," said Dorian. "Can we go?"

"We're just getting started," chided Maxwell. "So many little feuds to fan. Your country is lousy with hate. Magisters are even cattier than Orlesians."

Dorian sighed. "You realize our Nevarran friend grows closer to bursting in and retrieving you with every minute we remain, don't you?"

Maxwell had decided that it would be best if he was thought to be alone, the better to be thought to be accompanied by dozens or hundreds. Which, thanks to a lengthy missive from Michel de Chevin that had caused a deluge of silent anguish, left Cassandra and Sera working one alley while Cullen and Varric commiserated in another.

"A risk we have to take," said Maxwell. He smiled and held out his hand. "Do you want to dance?"

"Please be serious."

"Not when you're being serious enough for the both of us," said Maxwell. He dropped his arm irritably. "So, how many men in here have you slept with? Approximately?"

"Fewer than I would have liked," said Dorian. "And more than my father wanted." He looked up at Maxwell's pale skin, creamy and obvious in a room full of tanned Tevinter complexions. That alone would have garnered him interest. The perfection of his masculinity alongside it would be more than they could resist. "But your foreign looks will draw twice that number, even without factoring in the half of the population I eschew."

The Inquisitor smiled humorlessly. "There's only one person in here I plan to take to bed, whenever he'll condescend to allow it. No matter how undiplomatic he's being tonight," he said. He swept his eyes around the room. "Let me know when you've tired of stamping that well-shod foot, dewdrop."

Dorian frowned at the uncharacteristic bluntness, then looked around at all of the potential listening ears. He leaned in playfully, like a whispering lover, but his tones were pure ice. "If I tell you yours is biggest, may we please leave?"

"That depends. Is it true?"

Before Dorian could respond, another self-important magister stopped by to see the foreign exhibit, and Maxwell went into his routine once more.

* * *

It took another hour, and dozens of subtly seeded personal wars, before they finally encountered someone Dorian was interested in seeing. Which was well-timed, because if he'd had to listen to the Divine pontificate for another minute about the interpretation and frequency of holy dreams, Dorian was definitely going to do something that precluded him from traveling to the Maker's side.

Though the woman in front of him had likely already assured that, in any case. "Maevaris!" he said, accepting an aggressively proffered hand with genuine pleasure. "You are, as always, the best-dressed person here."

Maevaris Tilani, the only magister he could truly call friend, smiled graciously. Tall, blonde, and pale, she looked very little like a typical Tevinter, and that was the way she liked it. Dorian had always suspected she used magic to keep herself even more exotic than she naturally was, and tonight her gown was pure silk, adorned with sparkling lights that drew every eye to her whenever she moved. She and Dorian had met while he studied with Alexius, and she'd become one of the few people he could socialize without wearing quite so many masks. And it had been comforting to fall inside of her vast shadow and simply be the accoutrement instead of the main attraction for once.

Not that she hadn't let him shine on occasion. "Dorian Pavus," she said, her husky, unmistakable voice full of mischief. "I may be the best-dressed, but you were always the best at undressing, as I recall. The number of men you talked into our carriages with that silver tongue…"

He grinned, and she looked over his shoulder. "I certainly hope this one will be one of them," she added. "He's a bit tall for my tastes, but I always said that exceptions keep life interesting."

"Maxwell Trevelyan, my lady. An honor to meet you at last."

"Truly?" said Maevaris. A delighted smile blossomed on her face. "I'd heard rumors, but… Dorian, you've become such a liar since your little journey south! Your descriptions didn't do this man justice in the least."

Dorian flushed as she swatted him with the fan she carried, and Maxwell eyed them appraisingly. "You've talked about me?"

Maevaris laughed lightly. "Ser Inquisitor, I did little else but press him for information on his return. You're so very famous. Obviously he was loathe to be too revealing, but I thought his oldest friends might rate at little more detail," she said. "Very naughty of you, my love."

"So what did he say?" asked Maxwell, his green eyes very, very bright. The strip of beard moved as his square jaw tightened, and Dorian might have said the man was nervous, if he wasn't the Inquisitor.

It was the blonde woman's turn to look appraising as she studied them. "Only good things. Strength, and intelligence, and a confidence in yourself that can only be born, not taught. The will to run the world, and the compassion to see it run well. Kind and generous. Brave. Decisive. Well-loved. An easy man to follow, and a loyal friend," she said. She waved her hand over Maxwell's body. "But he did _not_ mention this."

Maxwell smiled, but it was a little distracted. "You said all of that?"

Dorian scowled. "Not exactly in those words, as I recall," he said. "But in essence, I suppose I did. Despite Maevaris's slanderous claims, I don't lie to my friends."

"You big softy," said Maxwell, placing a hand over his heart. "I'm touched."

"Don't let it go to your head," said Dorian. "I'm certain I also described your ego as the size of the Breach. Correctly. And that was two years ago. I'd hate to see it continue to expand."

Maxwell's gaze lingered just a little too long on his face, and Dorian found himself drawn into it against his will. His stomach fluttered a little at the molten pleasure he saw there, and he reminded himself sternly that he was exceedingly annoyed with this man. That just the night before he'd shown how much of this little dance was being called for himself alone. And any fluttering was completely inappropriate, as Dorian was most certainly not in love with him.

Fortunately the Inquisitor looked away before the war within him grew too difficult to manage. "Magister Tilani. Dorian, and my companion Varric, also described you in glowing terms, but I would be remiss if I didn't add that my own respect was secured long ago. From the first contact, I have known you to be a woman of grace, honor and principle, nearly unparalleled in our world. People like you are what keep my faith in Thedas, and the Imperium, alive."

Maevaris was far too practiced in hiding herself to be outwardly flustered, but Dorian didn't miss the very small parting of her mouth. "My word," she said, fluttering herself. "With speeches like that, it's no wonder your army is so large. I thank you, Inquisitor."

"Maxwell, please, to my friends. And that goes extra for Dorian's friends, whom I hope will always be mine."

She shot Dorian a look that said plainly, _Maker's breath, is this man real?_

He shrugged, and she quirked a smile. "I see no trouble on that account," she said. "Now, tell me, what was my darling friend like on his outreach mission to the south? Besides freezing, obviously. The truth, now. Guests should never lie."

Dorian sighed and prepared himself for another story of how he'd cured a set of orphan twins of myriad terminal diseases. Or perhaps this time it would be the tale of his heroic stand against a bandit camp with only his staff and his convictions. Maxwell told them all believably enough, but it was a bit disheartening to know that his best contributions to the Inquisition were all things he'd never actually done.

"He was extraordinary," said Maxwell quietly. "And essential. I couldn't have done half so much without him. He sat up in our library every day - we have a very poor library, he tells me, but he improved it as best he could - reading and researching and looking for answers in the past while I was busy wrestling with the future. He fought well, as I'm sure you can imagine, but I have fighters. I have a lot of fighters. What I needed was an advisor without an agenda and friendship without a price, and he gave me both."

The noise of the room seemed to mute, as though a curtain had drawn around the circle of their conversation. The laughter and falsities were gone, the flatteries and undercurrents fled, and everything around them was still. Dorian held still in turn, afraid to move for fear of breaking the unexpected spell falling from Maxwell's soft lips.

"There was a time where I had to make a choice," Maxwell added, his mouth drawing into a thin line. "About which path to take and who to trust. I don't like to think about what might have happened if I hadn't chosen the way I did. If I hadn't let him convince me to Redcliffe. I don't know if we'd all still be here today."

He laughed, then. "I never would have guessed I'd say something like that about a citizen of the Imperium. No offense meant, my lady."

"I will take it in its intended spirit. The darling is quite special," said Maevaris, winking at Dorian.

Dorian shook himself. "You're vastly overstating my influence, Inquisitor. I recall most of the heavy lifting, in the fighting and the diplomacy, being done by your illustrious self."

Maxwell waved his hand deprecatingly, the one with the anchor on it. "Simple tasks. Things any soldier, or noble, could have done."

"Really? Dorian told me that you were the only one who could be the Inquisitor," said Maevaris. "He said you were the only one in this world who was audacious enough to win alone and prudent enough to make the winning seem the work of all."

He sadly wasn't close enough to kick her, but Dorian gave his friend a dirty look for revealing yet another of his drunken ramblings.

But Maxwell shook his head inside the quiet space he was still creating. "Oh no. I've always known he would have been better suited to it than I ever was," he said. "Of course, I would never wish the burden of the anchor or the responsibility of the Breach on anyone, much less someone I care about. But I think Andraste could have chosen her emissary a little more carefully. The world didn't collapse, which is a victory by some metrics. But I lost people. Too many. Dorian could have saved them all. He would have been magnificent."

The warrior had been looking at Maevaris as he spoke, but his eyes found Dorian's, and they were full of regret. "My imagination is so limited. Colorless. Dorian sees the world as it could be, not as it is. His vision is his greatest gift," he said. He turned back with a small laugh. "So that's what he was like, in the Inquisition. An idealist. One who made it, and me, better simply by being there."

Speechlessness was not one of Dorian's specialties, but if he'd ever known any words, they were gone. Along with his heart. Maxwell Trevelyan always had the right weapon for any fight, and Dorian still had no defense against him when he was inspired. It was all nonsense, of course, but in the deepest recesses of his mind, Dorian knew that these were the things he'd always wished were true about himself. It was enormously unfair of the Inquisitor to lay them bare so prettily.

"You know my friend very well," said Maevaris.

And just like that, Maxwell's courtly manners and demeanor returned, and Dorian's threatening tears vanished as he fought his way back to control.

"Not as well as I thought, it seems," said Maxwell. "I've learned many shocking things about his past, tonight. He's a very surprising man."

Maevaris's booming laughter washed over them, bringing the bright, sparkling sounds of the room back with it. "If you're in the mood for _shock_ , let me tell you about the time we went to a hat shop in Qarinus…"

* * *

A half an hour later, as they were walking from the ballroom to the dining room, Maxwell stumbled and fell against the wall. Dorian stopped and looked around the small hallway, but no one was around, and his stomach clenched as he examined the Inquisitor.

Maxwell had recovered, leaning into the wall casually as if he were just examining the portrait there, but Dorian wasn't fooled in the least. Now that he was looking, really looking, he could see the strain around Maxwell's eyes, the lips that were very slightly grimacing, and above all the careful way he turned his head, as though he were on a ship fighting back the nausea of the waves.

"What's wrong?" asked Dorian, low and quiet.

"I'm not feeling well," Maxwell admitted, and the fact that he would come out and say it rather than mincing around the issue was the most worrying sign of all.

"How long?"

"About an hour."

Dorian glared to cover his new panic. "And you're just telling me now?"

He pushed the Inquisitor against the wall and ran his fingers through the thick, brown hair that had been beckoning to him all night. If anyone walked past they would see two indiscreet lovers enjoying a moment, but Dorian's eyes roved his face for signs of maleficence instead of desire. Assassins and blood magic and so many things that could have gone wrong. Why had he let Maxwell insist on coming?

"Do you feel anything strange in your mind?" he asked, forcing himself into quiet and calm. "Like fingers, brushing against it? Or strange thoughts you aren't sure you should have? Things seen out of the corner of your eye? New ideas or pain?"

Maxwell shook his head, then blanched.

"Are you sure? Blood magic can be subtle. It doesn't always announce itself at the staircase."

"What did it feel like for you?" asked Maxwell, curiously.

"Like being told the story of your own life by a very misinformed storyteller," said Dorian. He stared into Maxwell's eyes, trying to see any hints that weren't the man he knew. Anything that wasn't as it seemed.

"I'm still me, Dorian. I swear," said Maxwell. He smiled, then, and snaked his hand around Dorian's neck to stroke the flesh there. "If I'd have known it would get you this close to me, I'd have faked an illness a long time ago. This careful scrutiny is very enjoyable."

Dorian rolled his eyes."That sounds like you, anyway."

"I just feel sick to my stomach. Maybe I've picked up some Tevinter disease from your infested country," said Maxwell. "I took the antidote I brought with me - broad spectrum - so that should help if there was any wrongdoing, but this doesn't feel like being poisoned. It feels like the morning after a long night at the tavern."

"Then we'll treat it that way. Home, bed, water, rest. And I'll let Varric take a look at you. The Merchant's Guild has trained him for these kinds of things."

Maxwell didn't protest, which was another bad sign. "As long as he's not the one to monitor me all night in case I need extra care. And when you're the one who does, will you dress in one of those little medical robes? I've always found those very alluring."

They made their way through the party to the exit, Maxwell keeping up his flirtatious patter the entire time, threading Dorian's worry with small touches of amusement. It wasn't every man who could soothe someone's fears with gentle lechery.

* * *

Cassandra found them first, and she was so obviously on battle alert that Dorian wondered that she hadn't been arrested. "You were in there for ages!" she hissed when she drew alongside them. She took a look at Maxwell and found an additional alarm level. "What's wrong with him?"

"Just a little too much liquor," said Maxwell. "Get me a bed and a companion for it and I'll be right as rain."

The Seeker nearly exploded, right in the street, but Dorian cut off whatever hectoring speech she was about to make. "Where is Sera?"

"She was distracted by someone she knew," said Cassandra dismissively. "She lacks the discipline to be a guard. And she put up such a fuss about talking to them that it wasn't worth the argument."

"But she doesn't know anyone in Tevinter," Dorian protested, then whipped his head around at summons from a nearby alleyway.

"Oi you lot," said an unmistakable voice. "Come here!"

Dorian looked at Maxwell, who was clearly on his last legs. "We really need to get home…"

"No, this is important. Come on!"

Maxwell shrugged and led them to the alley, Cassandra still hissing like a tea-kettle behind him. When Dorian stepped into the alley, Sera grinned broadly at him. "I found someone who will talk to me, yeah? Jenny for the win!"

Dorian's annoyance, exhaustion and worry all combined into one ball of horrible feeling. " _This_ is what's important? Sera, this could wait until tomorrow. The Inquisitor -"

Another elven woman stepped out from the shadows, and Dorian broke off. "Shayla?"

She nodded, and Dorian stared. It was a wonder he'd even recognized her. Gone was the unnerving governess hair, the meek and downcast gaze, and even the nondescript clothing. She wore black, with a simple ponytail, and her face was watchful and a little hard. But her eyes were still the worried regard he'd come to expect from her, by the end. They'd traveled a long way together.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stepping forward. "What happened? Have you been okay? I've been worried that without the Pavus protection…" He trailed off, then added, "I'm sorry if I frightened you in the house. I wasn't myself."

She still said nothing, and Maxwell was suddenly in front of him in a protective stance. "Something isn't right," he said, his voice distant and thready even with the tone of command he was trying to summon. "What are you doing here?"

"Yeah, what's all this?" said Sera, wary as well, and Dorian turned at a sound he only half-heard.

"I'm sorry, Dorian," said Shayla.

He saw Cassandra grappling with two darkly-clad figures behind them, clearly outmatched despite her skill. Dorian yanked the Fade to him when Sera squealed loudly, ready to unleash a horror that would settle over every stranger in the alley, but strong arms gripped him from behind before he could finish the casting. Whoever it was did something that tore his magic away, and he spun madly, trying to strike out with the few physical combat skills he knew.

Sera was limp in Shayla's arms, and Maxwell was on the ground, unconscious and untouched, the image from his every nightmare. Dorian managed to connect with an elbow before the figure corralled him again. "Careful, magister," said a graveled voice in his ear. "We know how to deal with your kind."

A forearm pressed over his throat, and the Fade was still untouchable and useless, like the swords and armor that were still back in the Pavus entryway. The world around him receded as his air and hope vanished. The last thing he saw, before the alley left entirely, was Shayla's hand reaching out to stroke his cheek.


	15. Guardian Spirit

Maxwell knew he wasn't dead. That was the only thing he did know, as the rest of his knowledge seemed fuzzy and wrong. Shapes that didn't fit. Like blood magic, hearing a story of a life that wasn't quite the life he remembered.

Dorian had told him that. Maker's breath, where was Dorian?

He opened his eyes but his eyes had already been open, and that was also confusing. When he lifted a hand to them to feel at the lids, he inhaled sharply. The anchor was gone, just as he'd wished for so hard in those early days of chaos and fear. Beyond his stranger's palm was a wall that wasn't a wall, fuzzy and insubstantial. Several figures paced behind it, watching him, and he could sense their anger and waiting violence even through the barricade. He was in danger.

As soon as he thought it, his sword appeared in his grip, light as a feather but sharp enough to cut the light around it.

So this was a dream. The Fade. Or maybe he was dead after all.

"Death doesn't have so many wonderings," said a voice, and of course it was Cole. "It doesn't let the thoughts in."

 _So what is this?_ he tried to say.

"I'm helping."

* * *

Dorian woke with a pounding headache and an aching throat, both inside and out. Other than that, and where someone had wrenched his arm, there was no pain, and that was a pleasant surprise. So was the fact that he was laying on a plush, opulent bed inside of what looked like a well-kept Tevinter mansion. There was a priceless lamp on the side table, and even a platter of grapes awaited him, though they were sadly unpeeled.

None of this was what he'd expected, had he been allowed to expect anything at all. Mostly he'd been expecting to be dead.

He sat up and studied the rest of the room. Shayla was nowhere to be seen. No one was. For whatever reason, they'd left him alone and unguarded. The door was open to the hall, he was completely unbound and unrestrained, and the Fade was back and waiting to be used.

His mouth curled in a feral smile. Good. He would.

Dorian breathed in a slow breath and pressed his mind against the Veil. This was dangerous, to drift so close to the other side, but a master of necromancy was in less danger than most. He'd flirted with death a thousand times in his training, slowing his heart and mind until he was straddling the edge of living. How else could he reanimate a corpse unless he'd felt its contours from the inside? And the closer he got to the Veil, the closer to death, the easier it was to feel the life around him. It was a hungry sensation, the beacon of someone's life calling to a person on the brink of death. Like walking into a feast at the end of a long journey, ravenous and empty.

And there were some lives he knew the feeling of as well as his own.

There were at least a dozen people in the house. Strangers. One felt like Shayla and drew away with a hiss, fearful of the pulse of power that wanted to escape and find a point of pain inside of her. For the rest of them he dropped small seeds of horror their minds, pain waiting to be activated at his later command. He found Cassandra, unconscious but alive, and Sera, awake and furious. Her spirit was so strong that it overwhelmed him, and he drew more energy to block her out, searching, searching for the one person he didn't sense. The one he was desperate to find.

His heart slowed, thudding in an achingly distant rhythm as he scrabbled across the Veil. He was there, somewhere. The universe wouldn't dare take him. Not those eyes and that smile and the infuriating way that he always got what he wanted. Even the Maker would bow to the imperative of his will.

Just as Dorian was about to pull back, the edges of his vision greying and wavering through the strain, he felt him. Just a whisper, but it was close. So close that it was terrifying that the consciousness was so faint. Maxwell was almost dead, and Dorian felt his blood quicken as he came back into the world. The blood that would save the Inquisitor, if necessary. His father had shown him very well how such things could be done, even by the untutored and desperate.

He rose quietly and slipped out of the room on soft feet, following the memory across the hall into another luxurious room that was as still as a Nevarran tomb. Maxwell lay outstretched on the bed, his shallow breathing barely moving the sculpted chest that Dorian saw so often in his dreams. His face was grey and pallid, and he resembled the shambling corpses of the Fallow Mire too closely for comfort.

The Inquisitor was a large man, so why did he look so small?

Dorian crept to the bed, slightly worried that his magical specialty might give Maxwell's sleeping mind ideas, but as soon as he touched the Inquisitor's ice-cold fingers he gripped them so tightly their chill seemed to pass directly into him. "Maxwell," he whispered. "Wake up."

He grimaced, well-aware of how inane he sounded, and began probing the sleeping man's body with what healing magic he knew. If it was a poison, it was none he'd ever seen, so his only hope was that it was some other injury. Something that he could fix. He sat on the bed and ran his free fingers through matted brown hair.

"Come now, _amatus_ ," he whispered, leaning closer. "This is no way for a hero to behave. Who will save us all if you sleep through the danger?"

When he let a tendril of healing curve inside of the body beneath his hands, Maxwell groaned and thrashed. Dorian pulled back immediately, alarmed, then whirled in a circle as someone he'd never sensed spoke behind.

"You can't heal him, magister," said the elf sitting in the corner. The graveled voice was the same as the man who'd subdued Dorian, back in the alley. "It will only make it worse."

* * *

" _Amatus_ ," said a voice, and Maxwell sat up. The bed underneath him tore apart and reformed, but he didn't fall through it.

"Dorian," he said, panicked. "Where is he?"

"On the other side," said Cole.

Maxwell turned to look where the spirit pointed, and he saw another iridescent barrier, almost like a mage's shield. It was less solid than the opposite wall, but it still looked firm enough to trap him here. Dorian's features were only waveringly visible through it, but he was the bright, glittering light of a gemstone. As Maxwell watched, the mage ran his hand over something beside him, tenderly, and whispered quiet words that Maxwell couldn't hear.

"Why is he like that?"

"It's what he looks like in the world," said Cole. "When we're here, he's very bright. Dorian is easy to see."

Maxwell considered pointing out that Dorian was luminous in any setting, but this was no time to argue semantics with a spirit. Just because he was stuck in a Fade box with no apparent exit didn't mean he had to lie down and take it. "How can I get out of here and back to the world? I assume that's the Veil. Can I tear it open with the anchor?"

Cole didn't answer, and Maxwell looked down at his smooth hand. He'd almost forgotten what it looked like without the mark, and it was startling to discover he almost missed it. Was he still Maxwell Trevelyan, hero, without it?

As he considered the uncharacteristically introspective question, his hand started to glow once more, the jagged line racing to fill the empty space, and pain came with it. He screamed while it tore at his soul, and Cole made high-pitched keening sounds that blended in ugly harmony. The Fade around them shook, an earthquake that was somehow worse for rattling things that didn't exist. Through his open-closed eyes he saw the figures pacing and staring, throwing themselves against the barrier that seemed to flicker in and out.

"Enough," said another familiar voice, and the anchor vanished.

When Maxwell's nerves finally stopped burning, he looked up into a pair of violet eyes that were so much older than he remembered. Old like the ruins they'd explored together, searching for answers to the problem of the sky. Old like the dusty tomes in Dorian's library. Old like the stars.

"Solas," he said, a little hoarse. "Where in the Void have you been?"

The elf laughed, a light little chuckle that turned back the years to the first time they'd met, underneath the first rift. It wasn't happiness, but it was as close as Solas ever got. "It's good to see you as well, Inquisitor."

* * *

"Who are you?" asked Dorian, but his mind was already running along the paths of deduction and the things that were known. The elf's hair was white and wispy, but it only made him look younger instead of ancient. It was hard to tell, with elves, of course, but he seemed a man in his prime. He had strange, silver tattoos running over his body, following the lines of his veins, and they shimmered in the low candlelight with whispers of light. And he looked explosive in his restraint, a bow pulled taut and ready to fire.

When Dorian realized those silvered tattoos murmured in harmony with the magic inside of him, he swallowed heavily. He shifted to put himself more squarely between the stranger and Maxwell, and the elf gave a toothy smile that lacked any humor. He said nothing.

"Actually, don't tell me. I'm very good at puzzles. You're Fenris," said Dorian. "Danarius's slave. Or escaped slave, at any rate. I thought you were dead."

"Danarius certainly wished that I was," said Fenris. "Unfortunately, magisters sometimes lack the ability to distinguish their desires from reality. He was very convincing in his lies, however."

Fenris crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. Fingers that were covered by extremely spiky gloves, Dorian couldn't help but notice. That was almost worse than the lyrium - at least the lyrium was beautiful. "It was selfish of him, of course, only a way to keep the rest of you from capturing me first. But it was the only time the bastard was ever of any use to me. Unwary magisters make the easiest prey."

Dorian shivered. Yes, this was a very dangerous man. The Little Wolf, Danarius had named him. He'd bragged about him endlessly in those smoking rooms with the brandy and the pretensions, and Dorian had no doubt the elf had earned the name. His eyes said he was no stranger to death.

But they weren't murderous now, more appraising. Dorian sensed that he was being judged, in some way, but he'd never been much good at living up to someone else's expectations.

He stood, the better to look imposing. "Did you kill my parents?"

Fenris shook his head. "No. It was another. Perhaps a magister, perhaps your slaves, perhaps someone else entirely," he said. "But don't allow that to deceive you. I would have, had I been there and it served my needs. They wouldn't have been the first. The only good magister is a dead one."

Dorian looked down at the amulets he wore and raised a questioning eyebrow, fighting against the black rage consuming him. He felt like a ship untethered from its moorings, drifting, floating, roiling above unsettled waves and never knowing where the next lurch would come.

Fenris only shrugged in reply.

"Did you do this?" asked Dorian, gesturing to the figure on the bed.

A spark of something, then, a reaction that wasn't only grim death. "Not intentionally."

Lie or truth, it didn't matter. Maxwell was alive, and his even breaths were the only things keeping Dorian bound to himself. In a strange way it was freeing, to wrap the social dilettante around a frozen core. He had to stay composed long enough to get them out of this. If Maxwell was going to sleep on the job, he would need to be the dashing hero.

He tried to think of what the Inquisitor would do in this situation. Probably say something graceless and offensive, perversely winning an ally. "I should really kill you, you know. They'd probably throw me a parade, right down the center of Minrathous. And then another in Skyhold. Though perhaps not a parade, there. It's not quite large enough. A celebratory fete, I think. After all, you have been getting them blamed for your little killing sprees."

The elf frowned and stood swiftly, with an impossible warrior's grace that even Maxwell didn't possess. He was tall and wiry, and he reached for an enormous weapon that Dorian hadn't seen in his anger. It looked too heavy for anyone but a Qunari to lift, but Fenris hoisted it easily. And Dorian had to admit bitterly that nothing about him looked much like an ally. It was definitely something to do with Maxwell's hair.

But instead of swinging at him, Fenris only growled, "Stop yammering."

"I'm a natural yammerer, I'm afraid. Something in the bloodlines, or so they tell me. If I don't speak at least once in each hour, I will simply wither away. It was a trial for both my governesses and everyone who ever was unwary enough to sit beside me in the baths," said Dorian. His gaze sharpened, and he dropped his voice into a more threatening zone. "So what did you do to the Inquisitor? And why can't I heal him?"

Silence.

"And why haven't you killed me? My reticence to perform the reverse is obvious, even if the rewards would be so great. All your little friends will try to stick alarming numbers of holes in me if I so much as give you a cutting look. But you have a _very_ big weapon. Impressively large," said Dorian.

Maybe if he could get the elf closer, he could kill him without noise. Those lyrium tattoos had protected Fenris from his magical search, as well as his infusion of terror spells, but they would likely be painful when filled with magic. Dorian smiled wickedly. "It's no wonder Danarius was so distraught at the loss. All of those long nights without it to comfort him."

Fenris growled again, more loudly, and his entire body glowed blue, fading out of the world in a way that turned Dorian's stomach even as he stared in fascination. Flesh and bone wasn't supposed to do that, and even at this distance he could feel the Fade screaming in agony at the living intrusion. The memory of falling through a Rift, waking in a nightmare ruled by a nightmare, was close now, and he could taste that ashy realm on his tongue.

 _Dorian_ , whispered a voice, and even at a whisper he knew it was Maxwell.

The elf didn't seem to hear it. "Don't say his name. Never again. Do you understand me? I can make you bleed in ways you've never imagined, magister."

Dorian reached out with his magic, trying to find the hint of the Inquisitor he'd felt, but he gave a saucy smile as he searched. "Don't make promises you won't keep."

Shayla walked in, breaking his concentration and cowing the glowing warrior with tremendous speed. "Stop it," she said firmly, and the governess hair might have been gone but she was even more unnerving without it. "Sit down, both of you."

When Fenris tightened his grip on his weapon, she crossed her arms. "Leto, sit down." To Dorian's slight surprise, he did, though his expression was still thunderous, and Shayla nodded once. But then she turned to Dorian, and her face fell into sadness once more. "This wasn't supposed to happen. I'm sorry."

Her eyes brushed past him to the Inquisitor's laboring body, and Dorian moved to block him again. " _What_ wasn't supposed to happen? Who are you, really? Tell me," he said. He tried to make his voice strong, like a hero's, but even he could hear the broken plea inside of it.

"He's been poisoned," she said. She rose onto the balls of her feet, like she wanted to reach for him, but she kept her hands still. "And I am who I always was."

"Poison doesn't look like this," said Dorian flatly, ignoring the last. "And he took the antidote he had. That would have stopped most of them. Maybe all of them. The Inquisition is very clever about these kinds of things."

"I know," said Shayla. "But this poison has no antidote."

"It's for magisters," said Fenris. His anger was gone, and he'd recovered the same coiled, affectless energy he'd had before. But there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "It cannot be escaped."

"But it only harms those with magic," Shayla added. "Their connection to the Fade kills them, eventually. I didn't think it would affect him. But his hand… it must be more potent than I knew." She bit her lip. "It is possible he may recover on his own. That he is not yet dead is a good sign."

 _The anchor rips and mends the curtain that separates us from demons_ , thought Dorian wildly. _A thing no one had breached since the ancient magisters. How much more potent can magic be?_

But thoughts couldn't be heard, and he stared numbly as Shayla drew closer to Fenris and handed him a piece of parchment. She murmured something, but Dorian was more interested in the way the man's hand flared blue and the paper answered. Lines of writing, drawings, and sigils lit up along its surface, and his puzzling, always-churning, never-still mind saw everything.

"It was you," he breathed, and Shayla looked at him. "The wolf. The little wolf. And the paper with nothing on it but lyrium. The message was for you to pass to him. A note that no one could else read. The boldness of the Imperium, the Comtesse said. But I wasn't the bold one. Oh no."

Shayla made a distressed noise, and his eyes hardened. "You killed her. And the librarian. He wasn't your spy, but he was certainly a spy. Did he find you out? Or was he just a loose end, something that needed to be snipped?"

"The Comtesse was telling him everything, and I didn't know who he was. You'd already gotten too involved, and the Nightingale knew too much. We never would have survived. I had no choice," she said. There was a small waver in her voice as she spoke, and Fenris reached out and touched her arm soothingly.

It was surprisingly gentle for such a violent man, and Dorian felt a strange, confused moment of attraction to him. One that he would deny to his death.

"There's always a choice," said Dorian, shaking away from himself. "She was telling him everything, you said. But what was everything. What was 'done'?"

He spoke more to himself, and they didn't oblige with answers. He turned back to Maxwell and sat next to him once more, stroking his cheek, his arm, his fingers. _Come back_ , he called silently, but he kept thinking. What was the Comtesse? A socially ambitious woman. Cultured, though a bit of a bore. Reckless, to attempt an affair with the Inquisitor while her husband remained at home in their vineyards.

Then he saw again, a new expanse of terror, and the room dropped out from underneath him.

"The wine," he said. "The Orlesian wine at the party." Dorian looked back to Shayla, trembling but unbowed. "She poisoned it. You've killed them all."

"Not all of them," said Fenris. This time the satisfaction was obvious, rich and red, the color of blood spilling through the streets. "But enough."

* * *

Dorian had almost been close enough to touch, when that elf had come through. Before the Veil had solidified again. Maxwell was busily trying to break it down with this fists while Solas hectored him like a Revered Mother when he hadn't tidied his room. "Did you learn nothing from our conversations about the Fade? Or about the futility of brute force in an elegant world?"

"I wasn't really listening," said Maxwell. "Besides, you never know until you try."

Even though Solas was behind him, Maxwell could still see him roll his eyes. "What is the use of my wise counsel if it goes unheeded?"

Maxwell finally gave up and slumped against the barrier. "It seemed to make you feel better to give the speeches," he said. He sighed. "Why is this kind of thing always happening to me? I assume I'm dying."

"Not as such," said Solas, and Cole nodded helpfully beside him. "You've been poisoned, but not fatally. You are unconscious, trapped in the Fade until such time as we can return you safely to the world."

"Was it the Archon? I said I liked him, so that probably means he tried to kill me."

Solas laughed, then said, "Actually, you were not the intended target at all. Something of an irony."

"That's impossible. The leader of the Inquisition doesn't just accidentally get poisoned," said Maxwell.

"Attempt to conceive of a world in which you are not the center of every thought or action, Inquisitor."

Maxwell crinkled his brow, the studied picture of deep thought, then shook his head. "In my experience, that world doesn't exist," he said. He shrugged. "You're here to save me, aren't you? Two years with not even a note, and suddenly you show up? Things like that don't just happen. The Maker has me constantly in mind."

Cole frowned. "I brought him to help you. I'm not the Maker."

"I know but - nevermind," said Maxwell. "So, are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to solve this riddle myself?"

Solas gave him that very special annoyed look that Maxwell hadn't much missed, but he sat down on a soft couch that suddenly appeared behind him. "At the magister's party, the wine was laced with a poison that only kills mages. It is an ancient mixture, one I thought lost to the mists of the Fade, but it has been resurrected in this new age. Its particular savagery is that to attempt to use magic to remove the illness only makes it more fatal," he said. A curious expression appeared on his face. "I believe the Imperium will be thrown into some chaos now, with so many dead."

"Dorian," whispered Maxwell, stomach twisting. His cheerful manner dissolved instantly as he went back to work on the barrier with new vigor.

"He didn't drink it, Inquisitor," said Solas. "Your friend is safe."

" _Our_ friend," snarled Maxwell, but he turned around again sharply. "Wait. I'm not a mage. Why am I here?"

The elf lifted his hand to reveal the glow of the anchor on his own palm. "This," he said. "Its magic was enough to make you susceptible. Cole helped me to take the danger from you, but Compassion's ability to shift pain is only temporary. Even in the Fade, where things are more mutable if one knows how to perform the manipulation, this method cannot last. I believe we must make the arrangement more permanent, if you are to live."

"I'm sorry, what? You want me to… give you the anchor? Permanently?" asked Maxwell. "How is that even possible?"

Solas smiled. "In the last two years, I've been researching the orb that Corypheus left behind, hoping to unlock the secrets of the ancient elves within it. I've journeyed deep into the Fade, searching through the most ancient ruins in Thedas for memories of what might be accomplished with its remnants," he said. "I believe I now know of a way to do this."

The most ancient ruins in Thedas meant… "You're _in_ Tevinter?" When Solas nodded, Maxwell snorted. "You've been up in the Imperium taking naps for two years?"

A flicker of impatience rose. "It is more nuanced than that," he said. "I've been researching, along with Cole. To aid the Inquisition. What did you think I was doing?"

Truthfully, Maxwell hadn't thought about it much at all. Solas had never been a particularly close ally.

He shrugged, and Solas's eyes narrowed. "I see."

"So my choices are to try to give you the anchor, which might either kill me or trap me in the Fade forever, or return to my body with it and hope I don't die from this poison?" asked Maxwell. "Those are terrible choices."

"The world is terrible choices," said Solas sharply. "That does not make them less necessary."

Maxwell sat on the Fade-ground cross-legged, looking up mulishly. "I take the third path. Waiting. Dorian will figure out how to get me back, in one piece, and alive."

"You trust a Tevinter magister over me?" asked Solas.

His voice sounded slightly appalled, and Maxwell smirked. "I trust him over everyone."

 _Amatus_ , Dorian had said, and Maxwell didn't have to know fluent Tevene for that. A sacred blessing. An admission. A slip. Whatever it was, it was a sign that Dorian was starting to weaken in his resolve to keep himself at arm's length, and that wasn't something that Maxwell was going to forget anytime soon.

"But he will remember you long after you've forgotten him," said Cole conversationally.

Before he could ask the spirit what he meant, Solas said, "You assume Dorian will have the opportunity to aid you." He shrugged when Maxwell frowned. "Many spirits crossed through the Veil from the party. Magisters and other magic-users, all from a complicated poison that only the best scholars could concoct. The plot wove through Skyhold, on its way to the Imperium. Who do you think will be blamed?"

Shit. If Dorian survived the bloodbath after being on the arm of the Inquisitor, enemy of the state, all night…

Maxwell looked at his palms once more. He'd risk death for Dorian, a thousand times over. He loved the idiot, after all, and that's what one did for love. But without the mark, what kind of Herald was he? What kind of Inquisitor could he be? How could he help the world, much less Dorian, if he gave up his awe-inspiring power?

 _Please_ , he prayed. _I've served you. Give me another way._

A hand on his shoulder startled him. He tried to jerk away, but the grip was too strong to escape.

"Listen," said Cole.

* * *

"You've destroyed our country," said Dorian eventually.

"It was never mine," said Fenris. "Your kind has never seen my kind as anything other than toys. Pets. Animals. There is little about Tevinter worth preserving."

Dorian flinched. "That isn't true," he said. He looked at Shayla, who hadn't dissented. "I never… We treated you well."

"Your family was the least brutal," she said. She walked to the bed, standing over him, and Dorian was too exhausted to stop her. She ran a hand over his head, soothingly, steadily, like a comforting mother. "Your father was a good man, in many ways. I know he made mistakes with you, but they were mistakes borne of love, not hatred.

"I know that's hard to believe for you," she added when Dorian snorted. "But he regretted what happened with you very much. More than he regretted what happened with me. Because he was kind, but he still bought me. He tore me away from my family. My brother, and my sister, and my mother. So young that Leto couldn't even remember me, so young that the only reason I can remember them is that their memory was the only comfort I had in my lonely terror. It's hard to thank those who would do that to a person and not even feel regret, no matter their later kindness."

Fenris snarled, low in the corner. "I told you we should have killed him, too. Your plan is foolish, sister. You offer too much trust."

"We have to trust somewhere," she said. "This will not be done by slaves alone."

"What won't be?" asked Dorian.

"Revolution," said Shayla.

The word was simple, a mere collection of syllables that all found a home directly in the terrified part of Dorian's brain. The shape of the future was twisting once more, turning its claw to point directly at him.

Shayla bit her lip. "Radonis is one of the dead. We need you to become Archon. To help us."

"This was your whole plan? To kill three-quarters of the Magisterium, throw the entire Imperium into chaos, all to put me atop it and hope to imbue it will some kind of order? An order that you decide?" Dorian never stopped touching Maxwell, needing to feel his shallow breaths, but he rubbed one hand over his own eyes. "You realize whoever remains won't accept me. They'll blame me for what happened. I was actually at the party! And it's not as though I were popular beforehand."

"You weren't supposed to be there at all," said Fenris. "Trust a magister to be in the exact wrong place against all reason."

Shayla kissed his forehead, and he looked up in surprise. "It was to be your father. The new Archon," she said quietly. "Halward would have done what was needed for us. He… he would not have denied me."

The faraway look on her face, the way she was staring at him, as if she was tracing another likeness through his face, made Dorian's heart stop. "Were you… and my _father_? Magister Pavus and his slave? That's preposterous."

And he hadn't meant it the way it sounded, but by Fenris's new growl, that didn't much matter. "For once we agree, magister. He may have valued a certain possession more highly than another, but there was no love. No matter how fancifully my sister dreamed."

Shayla ignored him. "Yes," she said. "For a very long time, now. I've always considered you my son, Dorian. The son of my heart. I advised him against the blood magic ritual, but our love was too new to be partnership. I asked him to reach out to you, during the war. I convinced him to send you away from Tevinter, away from the danger of this revolution. I've only ever wanted you to be safe. And happy.

"But the Maker has other plans for you, it would seem. When your parents died, a new destiny was laid before us. And I know your heart. I know that you will do this for us. The Alexius slaves didn't want to join our cause. The Pavus slaves were the same. They wish for more, as we all do, but they do not hate their lives as so many others have been forced to. Please, Dorian."

A chess board, in front of him. All of the pieces settling into place. So many rooks, bishops, knights dead. Pawns all that was remaining. And him, the Queen.

He looked behind him at the King whose loss would end every game. "My price is his life. Heal him. Fix him. If Maxwell Trevelyan dies, you might as well kill me. You'll get no help."

" _Amatus_ ," said Fenris mockingly.

"Yes." To admit it was a terror, but at least Maxwell wouldn't hear it. And he could no more have denied it than deny his own name. Maxwell, his love. The man who had never relinquished Dorian's heart, from the minute he'd smirked in that Redcliffe Chantry and asked if tearing open the Veil was Dorian's usual tactic for meeting eligible men.

The elf leaned back and smiled. It wasn't nice. "That will never be you for him, you know. A leader has to love the greater good more than a person," he said.

Dorian frowned, wondering at that thready hint of pain in the words, but Fenris didn't stop. "And it doesn't matter. There is no way to save him."

A dagger in the stomach, once more, but Dorian gathered his exhausted mind to a purpose. Time to make his gambit. "Nonsense," he said carelessly. "There's always a way."

"Blood magic will kill him, too," said Fenris.

"You wound me! As though I would resort to such barbarism," Dorian lied. That would be the next step, if he guessed wrong. "You, my glowing friend, are positively made of magic. Very alluringly so, I might add. Any poison that could kill a magical person could kill you. And I sense that you, of all people, would not go gently into the Maker's embrace. There is an antidote. You have it. Give it to him, and I'll become your pet Archon."

Shayla spun around when Fenris said nothing. "Leto, is this true?"

"Very clever of you," said the dark-skinned elf. "But you fail to account for the idea that I may want him to die."

Dorian's fingers sparked lightning, and Fenris touched his weapon again. "But what of your grand plans? Tevinter revolution, the revenge of the slave, the new glory of a re-ordered Imperium? Shayla is right that you need a mage, a mage of standing, to usher in this new future. You would chance all of that to kill a man you've never met?"

Fenris shrugged. "The plan was acceptable, when it was your father. I trust no magister, but we had a way to keep him in line, should he waver from his purpose," he said, nodding to Shayla. "Lust and love are not so far apart as all that. But you? There are no guarantees. And if your heart is ruled by someone like this Inquisitor, then I can't trust you."

"Dorian is good, Leto," said Shayla.

"You are blind. Too much time in chains has made you forget that a man always cares for his dogs until they bite," said Fenris. "And when the man serves a poor master, his dogs are the ones that suffer first."

Dorian raised his eyebrow. "What has the Inquisitor ever done to you? He's helped the elves, in his way. He certainly never mistreated them. He even carved out room for the Dalish, harbored escaped slaves. Killed Imperial slavers. Flirted with war with this country over it."

Fenris snorted. "A pretty lie. He sought war with the Imperium to stamp out magic, to cow resistance. Slavery made a good excuse. But it's true, I do not claim him to be a slave lord. He's much worse," he said. He stood and moved to the bed, looking down at the vulnerable body below. "He's a murderer. He killed Hawke. And a man who would kill Hawke deserves no life of his own."

* * *

"Hawke?" asked Maxwell, a little taken aback. "I didn't kill him. He wanted to stay. He begged me to let him sacrifice himself. To keep us all safe."

He tried to range back, to remember if there'd been something else, but it was hard to think about much of anything while he was hearing Dorian be so deliciously cunning, politicking and posturing and protecting. In general, being the sexiest creature that had ever stepped into Thedas. He was still lit with light, across the barrier, and hard to see, but his voice was clear and strong and beautiful here in the echoing Fade.

Cole shushed him quietly. "Listen, Inquisitor."

Solas sighed behind them. "This is a waste of time."

Maxwell gestured him silent, then leaned against the barrier to see Dorian do what he did best - find common ground with someone and then claim it for his own.

* * *

Dorian knew better than anyone that Hawke had chosen to stay behind, but logic would be no help here. Not when Fenris's face was Shayla's, faraway and aching. Hawke hadn't had a steady lover. He'd been a silent warrior who slipped into bedrolls quietly and left just as quietly, though there'd been noise enough in between. Dorian had never had the experience, but he'd seen the faces of those who had. But just because Hawke didn't have a lover didn't mean no one loved him.

He looked down at Maxwell. Heroes really were so very dangerous.

"You loved him," said Dorian softly. Fenris stood motionless, which was answer enough. "He never mentioned you at Skyhold."

"He wouldn't have. He would have never dallied with a former slave. Not the Champion of Kirkwall."

A lie. A strong lie, a lie with familiar shards of glass inside of it. "But he did, once, didn't he? One night of pleasure that you carried with you all the rest of your days. One night where everything that he was, the charisma and the confidence and the glorious heroics were yours. And it still burns in you even now."

"You speak as though you know," said Fenris, and his growl was more question than anger this time.

"Oh, I know. I know what it is to be the companion of someone who is the dazzling sun, resting on this earth and walking among mortals as though he's one of us. But he isn't. He's too beautiful, too good, too perfect, and so you settle back to live for the moments where he sees you. Even those aren't enough, because mostly what he sees is himself, reflected in your eyes, but it feels like enough. It feels like the best thing you've ever had, the dreams you've never known," said Dorian. "And I know what it is to have that painful night. The Inquisitor and Hawke were very much alike."

"Hardly. Hawke was the best of men. The Inquisitor is the worst."

Dorian smiled slightly. "It all depends on what measurement you use, I suppose. The heart is a very unreliable judge of value," he said. He reached out to touch Fenris's arm, and the elf didn't move away. "I know. Hawke would never have been yours. He belonged to his city and then the world. Yes, I very much know. But there is no worse future than one that doesn't hold him, and that is something you know.

"If Hawke were here now, what wouldn't you do for him?" asked Dorian, his voice low. He was asking himself as much as the elf. "Even knowing you were only saving him for someone else to have someday? That he will always be enough for you, but you will never be enough for him."

Dorian felt tears running down his cheeks, but he had no free hand to wipe them away. When Shayla's hand touched him with a soft handkerchief, he shifted and stood, breaking that precious link with the Inquisitor and taking Fenris's face in both hands. The elf's eyes were tear-bright as well, and he looked raw and vulnerable, trapped inside his grief.

"I beg it of you, Fenris. No price. I will be your Archon, if you wish it. Maxwell's life is too precious to bargain with like a piece of gold," he said. He switched to Tevene, the better to hide the shame of his weakness. "I love him, and he will never care for me more than himself. But I don't care. I want him back. He wanted Hawke to live. He wanted them all to live. Sometimes we don't get a choice. But right here and now, we do. Please."

Fenris smiled crookedly. "A begging magister is such a fantasy of mine," he said in common speech.

Dorian returned the smile, a little shakily, then dropped to his knees in front of the elf. "Then have it. I implore you for mercy."

The elf moved, and when Dorian looked up, he was forcing the contents of a bottle past Maxwell's lips. By the time Dorian rushed to the Inquisitor's side, the man's color was returning, and Dorian wept with relief.


	16. Flow of Battle

Maxwell's face slowly warmed underneath his hands, and Dorian never stopped moving his thumbs in rough circles over his cheeks. When he touched the Fade with his power, Maxwell's life was a crescendoing vibrancy across it, and every breath was a new hope. But Dorian refused to look away, to even blink, until he was sure that the danger was past. Shayla rubbed his shoulders and Fenris stood to the side, but he barely felt their nearness.

When Maxwell opened his eyes, they were the soft green of long grass, waving gently across untouched fields, and Dorian wept anew.

"You idiot," said Maxwell, as though they'd been in the middle of a conversation. His voice was hoarse and cracked, but there was a smile on his lips when he grazed a finger along Dorian's leg. "You'll always be enough for me."

Without conscious thought, Dorian leaned down to kiss him, hard, and after they were done thoroughly embarrassing themselves, they were alone in the room. When Dorian pulled away, Maxwell's eyes were closed again, and Dorian made a small sound in his throat.

Maxwell looked up at him with affectionate irritation.

"I can't even rest my eyes?" he asked, struggling to a sitting position. "I have been almost fatally poisoned. There was grave danger, hands wrung in fear, and a very dramatic recovery under the tender ministrations of a gorgeous healer. That would entitle most men to a little sympathy and understanding from their lovers."

Dorian laughed, a relieved chuckle that dried his tears and bypassed any lurching of his heart quite nicely. He reached for a cup of water and forced it to Maxwell's lips. "The Inquisitor gets no such luxuries when he scares his troops half to death," he said. "Where would we be without our fearless leader?"

Maxwell swallowed carefully and looked away. "Not so fearless, it would seem. What if it had been you?"

"It wasn't."

"It could have been," said Maxwell stubbornly. "I made you go there. I made you… I could have gotten you killed."

Dorian stared at him. "I chose to go. You needed a guard. Granted I don't wear the plumes quite so well as the official Inquisitorial honor corps, but I did my humble best," he said. He was stretching the truth a little, given that Maxwell had known full well that Dorian would never let him leave alone, but that had still been his choice. "You almost got me killed a dozen times during the war, mostly through your ridiculously ill-conceived plans. If you were this maudlin about it all then, I'm amazed we made it through the ball at the Winter Palace without a page following behind with a cart full of monogrammed handkerchiefs."

"That was different. I didn't - I mean, I wasn't -" Maxwell broke off, frustration weaving in between the tired lines of his face. "Stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?" asked Dorian, completely mystified.

"Like I just came out of my dressing room wearing my smalls on my head, saying they're a hat."

It was such an accurate description of how he felt that Dorian snorted. "Well, you did say we were lovers, which shows a fundamentally loose grasp on reality," he began.

Maxwell growled and lunged forward to grab his shirt. "Stop talking," he said. "Maker's balls, why did I have to fall in love with such an enormous pain in the ass?"

Before Dorian could even think to respond, Maxwell's hot mouth was on his again, and speaking was well and truly impossible.

* * *

Maxwell was so annoyed he could hardly see straight, so it was just as well he'd closed his eyes. On his way out of the Fade, he'd been primed to create a romantic moment. The scene had been set so nicely. The soft confessions of a man watching his love die, followed by a delicate bedside recovery and a triumphant opening line that would bring them together. The vulnerable first kiss of relief. The repetition of his feelings, and Dorian's inevitable reply in kind. All of the elements had been there for a tender and sweet and gooey reconciliation, the sort of thing that would have Cassandra clasping a hand to her bosom while Cullen looked on, envious of the hand.

Instead Dorian had to be _funny_.

Maxwell tried to convey how unappreciative he was of that dry, caustic, unceasing wit with the hard pressure of his mouth and the annoyed swipes of his tongue, but based on the way Dorian was moaning against him, he wasn't exactly getting the message across.

So maybe kissing him hadn't been the best vehicle for lesson-teaching. But when Dorian straddled him and returned the favor, Maxwell decided to give himself a pass. He had almost died, after all.

But eventually they had to breathe, and when Dorian leaned back, chest heaving, Maxwell stilled the hand that had somehow worked its way around to the mage's very firm ass. Dorian's eyes were bright, and Maxwell prepared himself for the breathy admission of his returned affections. He'd admitted it to the damn elf. It was about time Maxwell got to hear it himself.

"Did you say you _love_ me?" Dorian asked instead, tones halfway between disbelief and laughter.

Maxwell folded his arms between them and glared.

Dorian's amusement fled. "Are you a demon?"

His hand settled on Maxwell's shoulder before a thrum of magic ran through his body, nearly shooting him back into the Fade. On the bright side, he definitely wasn't going to fall asleep anytime soon. "Andraste's ass! What was that?"

"If you were a demon that would have left your entrails dripping from this tastefully decorative light fixture," said Dorian. "Unless you're extremely powerful, of course, but to be honest a powerful demon would be much more convincing than this. Perhaps a head injury…"

When Dorian started probing at his forehead with long, graceful fingers, Maxwell snapped, "I'm not a demon, I'm not injured, and you are absolutely _ruining_ this."

"I just saved your life," Dorian pointed out. "That seems the opposite of ruin, but then I'm not the practiced hero."

The mage tried to shift away, but Maxwell grabbed his hips and held him in place. He wasn't going to make the mistake of letting Dorian go again. It might take him a hundred failures, but Maxwell was capable of learning. Eventually.

"Listen, Maxwell," said Dorian, the steady calm of his voice infuriating. "I certainly won't hold you accountable for any of this. You've been through a very traumatic time, I'm sure things are still a bit incoherent, and while the kissing was a delight, I do try not to take advantage of vulnerable men. Things will look clearer in a few hours."

How could the man turn his regard on and off so easily? Had it all been an act, for Fenris's sake? That would be the most galling of all. Maxwell Trevelyan was no one's pretense.

His fingers tightened on the hips beneath them as he searched the mage's face. Dorian was urbane, sanguine, a little dismissive. He was all the things he'd always been, except for the dirt on his face that he hadn't had time to clean. His fastidious side would be appalled when he found out, and Maxwell was on the verge of telling him, just to get him annoyed, when he realized that there were places where the dirt had wiped away. The tracks of tears that had fallen, unrestrained.

An act, yes. But not for Fenris.

Maxwell grinned slowly, unfurling it along with his hands. He spread them wider as Dorian's expression grew nervous. "Things look very clear to me now," he said.

Dorian raised an insouciant eyebrow, but his breath was a bit shallower. "Do they?"

"I heard you, you know," said Maxwell, working his hands beneath the deep purple formal shirt that Dorian was still wearing. He hissed when he found hot skin to explore. "When I was in the Fade. I heard what you said."

"If this is what you think you heard, then I think a Desire demon was playing a cruel trick on you," said Dorian, but he wasn't trying to pull away anymore. "The Fade is treacherous."

Maxwell moved his hands to the small of Dorian's back as he shifted himself closer, and he felt the other man shiver. That had always been his most sensitive spot. Maxwell still remembered whispering encouragement to him, into the ear that arched back as Maxwell ran his fingers over that intoxicatingly responsive place. Even when they'd been joined together, the pleasure almost too much to bear, Maxwell had held a hand there, feather-light, to steady them both in the midst of their need.

When Dorian's lips parted in the present, Maxwell kissed him again. "So I'm not beautiful and perfect? I'm not the sun?" he murmured against an unresisting mouth.

"Things happened rather quickly," said Dorian as he bit lightly at Maxwell's lower lip. "Who can say what was said and what wasn't?"

"I can," said Maxwell, leaning his head back to let Dorian's lips range down his neck. The mage only fluttered his mouth over skin instead of increasing his fervor, and Maxwell growled. Dorian had frustrated his attempts at soft romance, and now he was frustrating his attempts at heated sex. What other methods were there for creating a romantic moment?

Finally he gave up and pulled the other man away by his hair. "I understand Tevene. I know what you said. How you feel. Why won't you just tell me?"

Dorian's eyes widened in fear, and he swallowed heavily. There was a long pause before he said, voice shaking, "If you heard me, then you know why."

Maxwell frowned. He'd heard his declaration of love, something about Maxwell never doing something, probably dying, and Hawke's death. None of that explained a damn thing. He said, reluctantly, "Well, I don't understand it fluently. But I heard enough. _Amatus_."

"Don't say that," said Dorian sharply. "It's not a term to use carelessly. It is… it has meaning."

"I know."

"You don't know. You can't possibly understand," said Dorian. He tried to pull away again, but though Maxwell had released his grip on the man's hair he still kept him close. Dorian glared. "You were much more charming when you were unconscious."

"Would you stop it and let me sweep you off your feet already? I still love you, Dorian," said Maxwell. "If you think one stupid fight is enough to get you out of my system, then you have no idea how addictive you are."

Silence fell over them both, and Maxwell waited with the very last of his patience.

"What do you mean you _still_ love me?" asked Dorian eventually. He spoke very slowly, as though to a small child. "You never did."

"Of course I did. Do. I told you so just yesterday," said Maxwell. He thought for a minute. "Or two days ago, if it's past midnight."

"You said nothing of the sort."

Maxwell looked at him blankly. "Yes I did. With the apology, and the 'I can't stop thinking about you' and the, you know, running all the way to Tevinter to find you. Do you think I did that for my health?"

Dorian tightened his jaw. "First, you did not apologize. You listed everything you did wrong, then declared grandly that you wanted me to forgive you. That's not an apology."

"It's close enough!"

"It really isn't, Inquisitor. Nor is proximity an indication of romantic inclination. I spent nearly every day with Solas on your trips through the grubby wilderness and I assure you we maintained our casual animosity throughout," said Dorian. "Did you learn your methods of communication from wolves?"

"You're one to talk," snapped Maxwell. "You wanted me for years and never said a word! You just went back to Tevinter. What the hell was that about? We could have been having great sex that whole time."

"An opportunity not often seen," said Dorian dryly. "I, however, know how to communicate. I simply chose not to, to avoid having my fragile little heart stomped into the ground by an Inquisition-issued boot heel." He frowned. "Besides, you told me after Leliana's party that I'd never meant anything to you!"

Maxwell sighed. "Obviously I was lying. You'd just slept with another man when you were supposed to be sleeping with _me_. And you were being very irritating about it."

"You're the one who told me just that night that everything was off, sex-wise. Permanently."

"I never did!"

"After Giselle talked to you. You gave me the signal," said Dorian, shaking his head like an angry druffalo. "I got the message."

"That is _not_ what I did. Plus it was just for that night. She was practically going to be camped at the foot of my bed, and nothing ruins sex like a Revered Mother's stern gaze. Trust me," said Maxwell, shuddering. "The next day would have been perfect. I was looking forward to it, actually. I had plans."

Dorian's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he seemed to sense the truth of his words. "We definitely need a better signal, then."

"Clearly."

"And to work on your other communication skills."

"Fine."

Dorian looked at him expectantly, and Maxwell whooshed out a breath. "I'm sorry for all of the things that I did that you're mad about, even if you shouldn't be mad about them because they weren't really that bad. And I love you. I have for awhile, I guess, but I've known for sure ever since I sent you to jail when I shouldn't have. Which is one of the things I'm sorry for," he said. "There? Was that better? If you'd stopped making jokes for five seconds altogether I could have been much more romantic about this whole thing."

Dorian's eyes had softened throughout Maxwell's speech, and at the end he said under his breath, "Definitely something about the hair." He reached out to touch it gently, then smiled. "You are absolute rubbish at this love business."

Maxwell scowled. "Well, I've never done it before. I'm still working it out. Cut me some slack."

"You've _never_ been in love?" asked Dorian. "That is a pure impossibility. Look at you."

"Exactly," said Maxwell. "Look at me. Love is supposed to complete you, but I'm as perfect as it gets. Who did I need to love?" He smiled when Dorian rolled his eyes. "Then I met you. You're the only person I've ever known that I can't shake off. You make me want to be better. Not for you, but for the world. But I can only be better if you're with me, Dorian."

A tear gathered in Dorian's eye, and Maxwell reached out to brush it away. "Please stay. There's nothing I won't do to make you happy."

"It's unfair of you to say things like that," said Dorian with an irritated sigh. "It's impossible to remember your oafish behavior when you do."

"I never fight fair. I fight to win," said Maxwell smugly. He frowned and studied Dorian carefully. "How is it that you look so handsome when you cry? You don't get the red eyes and the snotty nose and the puffy lids. You just look more gorgeous."

Dorian smiled and leaned closer. "Clean living and prayer, _amatus_."

The mage kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck, and this was the force, the passion, the drive Maxwell had been wanting. "I'm sure," he said. "I did a lot of that in the Chantry myself. Are you going to pray with me now, Dorian?"

"The world is falling to pieces, everyone I know may well be dead, my homeland will certainly never be the same, and I've agreed to be the retroactive head of the revolution that toppled it," murmured Dorian. "But none of that is real until we step outside of this room. So, yes, we'll be praying for as long as possible."

He drew off his shirt, then Maxwell's, and he took such gentle care with them that Maxwell almost laughed. But he didn't, because Dorian's smile was amazed, his eyes full of wonder, and his hands shakingly vulnerable as they ran over his chest. This was the moment they should have had.

Until he realized that Dorian had deftly escaped once again. "You never said it," said Maxwell suspiciously.

Dorian smiled and kissed him, forcing his tongue into Maxwell's slightly petulant mouth, before pulling away. "I know."

"You have to say it." Maxwell's hands were underneath the band of Dorian's trousers, and the mage arched back but never lost composure.

"Do I now?"

Maxwell rolled his hips as he pulled Dorian flush against him, and he knew from the way Dorian moaned that he could feel exactly how aroused he was. "Yes."

"Why should I?" asked Dorian mischievously, rolling his own hips to match. "I'm very much enjoying this."

The mage kissed him again, then moved to work on Maxwell's jaw, but this time there were teeth involved, biting and marking and sending Maxwell nearly through the wall. Shit, the man had a talented mouth. He gave up on Dorian's trousers and unfastened his own, trying to wiggle out of them without breaking the contact of their hips. Dorian's body was hot and hard against him, and somehow all of this felt better than it ever had. He should have sex more often right after he almost died.

But Dorian had other ideas, and he backed away to pull Maxwell's remaining clothing off before leaning back to drink him in. His fingers ran light trails up Maxwell's thighs, sparking lightning as they went. Maxwell felt his cock responding to those little bursts of magic, and he closed his eyes and tilted his head back as they ranged higher and higher. His skin tingled incessantly, and when a hot, wet mouth pressed against his chest he groaned out loud.

Dorian shushed him gently as he moved, but when his tongue circled a stiff nipple exactly as his still-thrumming fingers grazed Maxwell's cock, he couldn't keep himself quiet. "Maker, Dorian, your mouth should be outlawed."

"You could do that, you know," said Dorian between explorations that were drawing him ever downward. "You do rule the world. It's enormously attractive power, when you choose to employ it."

"The only thing I want to outlaw is you ever leaving again," said Maxwell. He threaded his fingers through Dorian's hair, not enough to control him, just enough to reassure himself of who it was. Dorian. Dorian who loved him, even if he was being a stubborn tease about it now. "I can't take another two years of this torture."

"What about another two minutes?"

When the probing explorations stopped, Maxwell finally looked down and nearly passed out. Dorian was settled between his legs, a hand resting on each thigh, looking up with the same artfully innocent debauchery of a working girl. He even had that glorious ass jutting out just so, half-out of his trousers and beckoning. Maxwell's fingers tightened warningly, and Dorian wiggled his hips in rebellious response.

But his long, dark lashes settled gently on his cheek when he blinked, his pale eyes asking a silent question. For all that they'd done with each other in that long, beautiful night, this was something new.

And something Maxwell would cheerfully kill for. "Yes," he said, not sure if he was answering the question or begging. "Please," his mouth added without consulting him, which he supposed answered that.

Dorian kissed the tip of his cock, delicately tasting what waited, and Maxwell's hips shot forward of their own volition. The mage smiled up at him, and Maxwell flushed. "Sorry."

"A second apology," said Dorian, his words hot and breathy over sensitive skin. "A miracle for our Age. But this one is unnecessary. If you stay in control during this, I'll be quite cross with you."

Dorian kissed him again, lightly, his fingers grazing even lower, then licked a steady stripe over the entire length. Maxwell forced his eyes open, wanting to memorize this. The mage made a very pretty picture, and Maxwell almost understood why Dorian watched him so hungrily when they were together instead of losing himself in the physical. Some things were too important to vanish in the moment.

Even now his eyes flicked back up to Maxwell, and just before he went to work in earnest he said quietly, "I'm not going anywhere. I told you before, I'm yours, Maxwell. For as long as you'll have me."

And then his talented mouth descended, and Maxwell could think of nothing else but the way Dorian's lips felt around his cock, the way he drew him in smoothly and deeply, the way he held his hips still with strong, magical hands. The last of which was necessary, because it only took a few minutes for Maxwell to devolve into pleading, wild, uncontrolled movement. And he had to silently plead, because the Inquisitor didn't truly beg, but Dorian held him on the edge of finding release, never letting the sensations coalesce into one bright moment. His tongue cradled, his cheeks hollowed, his throat opened in beautiful welcome, but they all danced in irregular rhythm, pulling Maxwell's attention from place to place.

He always wanted more of whatever was happening, until the next thing happened, and then all he could think of was that.

When the anchor on his hand crackled and sparked, he stared at in horror even as his hips fought against the pressure over them. "Dorian," he tried to say, but it came out as a low moan. "Dorian. Maker, I'm going to…"

 _Open the Fade_ , is what he was going to say, but suddenly Dorian brought everything together, each feeling into a united whole that was bigger than the sum of its parts, and Maxwell knew he meant the other. When Dorian opened his throat for the last time, pulling Maxwell so deep that it was almost impossible, everything flashed white behind his eyes as he arched his back and exploded. He whispered another apology when he heard Dorian cough.

But Dorian's mouth worked him through the end, sucking and swirling and soothing, and Maxwell slowly unfurled the hand twisted into the mage's hair as he came back to himself.

As soon as he did, Dorian pulled completely away, but Maxwell yanked him up his body to kiss him deeply. Dorian grunted in surprise but allowed it, opening his mouth when Maxwell demanded entrance. Dorian tasted like him, like the pleasure he'd just wrung out of his body, and that was the sexiest thing of all.

He broke for air and set to work getting Dorian naked, but he stopped when he saw Dorian looking at him strangely. "What?"

"I've never been with a man who wanted to kiss me… after. Tevinter is rarely so unbridled. Wasn't that unpleasant?"

Maxwell laughed and went back to work on the pants. "There is nothing more pleasant than your mouth," he said. He creased his brow. "Well, no. Your ass wins. Barely. But to answer your question, as good as you always taste, you're even better when it's mixed with me."

Dorian smiled, then groaned as Maxwell's hand encircled him. "I see. You do love yourself, don't you?"

"Of course. Almost as much you," said Maxwell. He wound his free hand around Dorian's neck, the anchor dormant once more, and stroked a finger across overheated skin. "What do you want?"

"This," said Dorian quietly, as though he were afraid to admit it.

"And what is this? Tell me, _amatus_. I want to hear you," said Maxwell. He held Dorian's gaze, even though the mage tried to look away. "Dorian. My Dorian. Tell me what I can do for you."

His hand moved over the hard cock inside his fist, squeezing lightly and up, and Dorian whimpered.

"It's okay," said Maxwell. "I'm here." His voice dropped into a lower register. "I almost opened a Rift thanks to you, right here in the bedroom. You gave me so much. You always do. You give without asking, but I want you to ask. Be selfish for me."

Maxwell shifted position, getting a better angle, and Dorian seized the opportunity to bury his face in Maxwell's shoulder. A little alarmed, Maxwell rubbed his back and stilled his other movements.

"Don't stop," whispered Dorian, and Maxwell complied. Dorian shuddered in his arms as he responded, and Maxwell made another soothing noise. The mage added softly, "This is what I want. You, holding me, touching me. Being alive. Making me forget. Making me real."

Dorian's hips started to move, thrusting into Maxwell's hand. He kissed the collarbone beneath his lips, and Maxwell tilted his head to give him better access. "You're real without me."

"Not as real," Dorian answered. A half-sob caught in his throat, but he wrapped his arms around Maxwell to hold himself steady. "I'm sorry. I'm utterly falling to pieces."

"Then don't talk," said Maxwell. He brushed his lips over Dorian's ear. "Just listen."

And as he stroked him in careful rhythm, as he held him and touched the small of his back, he told him their story. How Maxwell had never forgotten him, and never would. How there were no lies between them when he told the world of Dorian Pavus's strength and mind and heart. How Tevinter could never truly fall as long as it had its finest son dreaming their better future.

Maxwell felt tears on his shoulder, and he held Dorian tighter as the mage rocked against him.

"More," pleaded Dorian, choked and desperate, and Maxwell reached lower to cradle the most tempting part of him. His finger probed, very gently, at the entrance that had Dorian biting back a moan.

"Also, I still want to fuck you properly as soon as we find ourselves in a better-supplied place," whispered Maxwell, and Dorian laughed.

He was laughing when Maxwell pulled his tear-streaked face away to kiss him through the end, he was laughing when he finally fell over the edge, spilling over Maxwell's hand and their joined laps, and he was laughing when they held each other after, wrapped inside a warm glow that had nothing at all to do with magic.

* * *

The glow never faded, but the outside world had little patience for satisfied lovers. Tevinter was in trouble, and they needed to be there.

Reluctantly, Maxwell pushed himself up and away to get dressed, and Dorian copied him without a word. Some thoughtful soul had left them water and towels, and they cleaned up as best they could in companionable silence. But Dorian heated up the water for him, and Maxwell made sure to wipe all the bits of dirt from the other man's face that he couldn't see.

When Maxwell finally stepped back, arms spread in a request for approval, Dorian laid a finger alongside his tanned cheek. "Only passable, I'm afraid. Your shirt is a fright."

His mouth quirked up, and Maxwell chuckled. "Sassy all of a sudden, aren't you?" he asked, tossing the used towels on the bed. "That's okay. I like it when you're sassy."

"You hate it when I'm sassy," Dorian corrected. "You said Josephine always took it out on you when a dignitary heard my cutting truths."

"Well, there aren't any dignitaries in here, so we're probably safe."

Dorian finished adjusting his own clothing and moved to the door. Maxwell followed, but stopped short when the mage turned around. "Maxwell. There's something I should have told you earlier that I didn't say," he said.

His voice was soft and sincere, and Maxwell waited expectantly. He tried to hide his smile, but he knew he was doing a bad job of it.

"I'm very glad you're alive," said Dorian, staring at him with a newly vulnerable light in his eyes. He breathed in, then added, "Because I really am growing almost fond of you."

The mage's handsome face broke out into a wicked grin when Maxwell sputtered and growled. Dorian's graceful, lovely hand patted his cheek, like he was an elderly relation, before he spun on his heel to saunter out of the room. The delicious sway of his hips was only small comfort, but Maxwell took what solace he could.

"You were right," muttered Maxwell as he followed and stared. "I hate it when you're sassy."


	17. Power of the Dead

Dorian led the Inquisitor through the unfamiliar halls with as much confidence as he could muster. He not only had no idea where he was going, but he also felt like one of the biggest fools on the planet. Maxwell Trevelyan had finally - _finally_ \- reached out with something resembling desire and interest rather than wounded pride, and had Dorian remained aloof and centered? Had he greeted the man's innocent professions of love with a stately appreciation, one that would maintain both his dignity and the possibility that Maxwell wouldn't tire of his clinging need before the week was out? Had he kept his composure in any noticeable way?

Of course not. He'd been so startled, so emotionally wrung out, so very much _himself_ that he'd wept in the man's arms, confessed that he felt hollow and alone without him, and left far too much of his heart etched on his sleeve for the gracefully detached Trevelyan. It must have been horrifying. Even Dorian wouldn't blame Maxwell if he distanced himself this time. Who wanted a weeping mess of a lover sobbing all over his pillowcases?

Maxwell had been so very attractive, though, smiling in the flickering candlelight. Earnest. Endearing. Turned on beyond belief. His arousal had been obvious, at least, and that was one small comfort, that the sex hadn't been some kind of sop to a confession Maxwell had never been meant to hear.

If only the rest of it had been that real. Maxwell's declaration had been sweet and well-meant but obviously misguided. No matter how much Dorian had wanted to believe, had let himself get caught up in the moment, the very universe rebelled against the idea - a lovestruck suitor and Maxwell Trevelyan matched up in not even the smallest aspect. And even if they had, the Inquisitor's lack of experience meant this was mere adoration brought on by stress and infatuation, instead of anything genuine. Dorian's attractions were myriad, of course, but they'd never extended to matters of the heart.

Not even when his own was irrevocably lost.

But Maxwell clearly cared, in his own way, enough to humor an emotional bedmate instead of halting the proceedings entirely. Perhaps there was still hope for something more permanent to grow. The Inquisitor had come all the way to Tevinter to find him, after all. There was a chance.

Presuming Dorian could recover some of the self-control he'd lost along the way.

He'd started off well in their little bantering session, and an effortless saunter through the mansion was another opportunity to reclaim ground. But it wouldn't do to lead them into a linen closet, so Dorian reasoned as they went. The upstairs felt empty, but the rest of the revolutionaries could be anywhere below. Still, one rule about Tevinter households was that the largest spaces were always in the front of the house, on the ground floor, so as better to impress guests with their grandiosity, and Dorian always played the odds.

They walked down the stairs quickly but slowed when they heard voices coming from their left. Maxwell held him back when Cassandra's determined accent cut through every wall and possibly all of Tevinter. "Release us. Now."

"We don't want to tie you up at all," said Shayla, desperation in her voice. "The Inquisitor is upstairs, recovering, along with Dorian. We're not your enemies. If you'll just stop fighting us…"

"I will break any man's, or woman's, fingers if they dare lay a hand on me again," said Cassandra. "Your lies are pathetic. If the Inquisitor were in this house, free and conscious, he would already be here. Do you expect me to believe he would delay in our rescue?"

Maxwell turned back with a look that was half-chagrin, half-amusement. "Oops," he whispered, and Dorian smacked his arm.

Shayla tried to make some other reassurance, but Cassandra overruled her. "But there is another who will also not delay. Commander Cullen Rutherford is searching for us, and when he finds us - I say when, and not if, for he is relentless - when he finds us, there will be no mercy for you. He is the finest soldier in the Inquisition. His sword is sharp, his arms strong, and his speed the rapid pace of battle. You will all die, very quickly, unless you release us."

"Maker, that's adorable," said Maxwell under his breath. "Why don't you ever say things like that about me?"

"I might, if you didn't rush to say them yourself first," said Dorian before shoving past him into the room. "Cassandra, my lovely Seeker, please forgive our delay. But I assure you, these citizens are all paragons of honest virtue."

The Seeker's hands were behind her back, tied to a priceless, centuries-old chair that was probably receiving horrific rope marks that would never be removed. But Dorian chose the path of prudence and kept that to himself as she stared at him, then past him, in wide-eyed horror.

And relief. "You are truly free? And alive?"

Maxwell nodded as he moved to untie her. "As far as I can tell. Dorian didn't even have to use blood magic on me."

"I'm sorry, Inquisitor," said Shayla, "but she injured several of our people. We had no choice."

The half-dozen men and women arrayed behind her nodded fervently, and Maxwell gave his best stern-but-forgiving look before winking at Dorian.

A muffled noise behind him had Dorian spinning around, mid-eye roll, and he saw Sera strapped even more firmly to a settee, a wad of cloth in her mouth. He raised an eyebrow at Shayla, who said, "She wouldn't stop moving. Or yelling. Or trying to bite us."

He sighed and nodded in understanding, then reached out to remove the gag. Sera coughed, swallowed, then said, "Took you long enough, yeah? Could have choked on that thing." She glared at him as he knelt and began working on her legs. "You two are lousy at this."

"My humblest apologies," Dorian began.

But a few hours of silence had clearly built up an excess of words inside of her. "What was the hold up, anyway?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she grinned wolfishly. "You were shagging weren't you? Jousting, right up there in the master's bedroom or whatever."

Dorian was just about to make a salacious joke about the stamina of their chargers when Shayla knelt beside him and gave him a very maternal smile. He broke off hurriedly and said, "That's none of your business."

Sera whooped. "That means I win the pool!"

Cassandra shook herself as she stood, then punched Maxwell directly in his abused arm. "I was worried sick about you, and you were canoodling?"

Maxwell quickly turned his cocky smile into a look of contrition. "But Cassandra, I was just so relieved to see him. And we're in love…"

The entire room suddenly developed a unanimous cough as Cassandra clasped her hands to her breast.

"Maker's breath," muttered Dorian as he finally finished freeing Sera. The elf gave him a knowing grin while she worked her extremities back into condition. Cassandra was busily trying not to gush with happiness at Maxwell's blinking, starry-eyed look. Wholly manufactured for her benefit, of course.

When Fenris walked in and growled at them all, it was almost a relief. "This is no time for frivolity and gossip," he said. "Minrathous is just beginning to wake into their chaos."

"Ah, the glowing elf. You'll never get a revolution to stick with that grumpy attitude," said Maxwell, leaning against an end table and crossing his arms. "Fortunately, I'm extremely good at revolutionizing. What can the Inquisition do for you?"

"You can stay out of our way," said Fenris. "This doesn't concern you, murderer. We just want your magister."

"I didn't kill Hawke!"

"Shut up," said Fenris. He turned to Dorian. "You'll announce that you're the new Archon within in the day. Just as the death bells begin to overwhelm them and the slaves leave their households. It's all arranged. The city will be looking for order, but wait too long and someone else will seize the opportunity."

Dorian rose from his crouch and glanced at Maxwell, who had a stony expression on his face. But it softened, marginally, when he met Dorian's eyes, and he made an encouraging gesture with his hand.

"First, I will absolutely need different clothes," said Dorian. "I can't be seen as Archon in last night's formal wear."

Fenris's eyes narrowed, but Shayla said, "We've sent people to retrieve your belongings from the Pavus household. Including weapons and armor."

Maxwell brightened considerably. "My lucky armor!"

"Second, you are not to wear that hideous armor ever again," said Dorian. "Or at least tint it some different shade."

"Make me," said Maxwell, grinning. "If they bring _all_ of my belongings, you'll have ample opportunity to persuade."

Dorian laughed even as he cursed himself for the happy expansion of his heart. Fortunately before he could embarrass himself with a blush, Fenris started glowing. "You think this is a joke? Some bit of fun we're all having? This is freedom for all of those that your kind has oppressed for far too long. Revenge for _centuries_. It's not the time to worry about wardrobes and armor tints," he said. "Take this seriously or die by my hand. All of you."

Shayla made a distressed noise, but Dorian only smiled coolly. Maxwell was watching. "You wish me to to be serious? Very well. You need me as Archon. Not just because of the political situation, but because you have absolutely no idea what you're doing," he said. "You're good at causing chaos, I'll grant you that, but you've shown a distinct lack beyond that stage. Setting aside your choice of me as your figurehead, which was a mistake at least borne of necessity, you're still blundering about like blind men."

The sound of metal sliding out of sheaths filled the room, but Dorian focused only on the lyrium-blue light in front of him. "You would spurn the help of the Inquisition, the one fighting force in the world who might actually be able to take the place of a coalition of magisters in keeping the border. We need an ally, and I can assure you we'll find none in any established nation. We've done very well at alienating them. As a point of pride. The dwarves ally with us for our lyrium needs, but how far will that go now that you've murdered the demand? The Qunari will seize any opportunity to break us, and this is a golden one. We will ally with the Inquisition, or I will not be Archon."

"Not all of the magisters are against us," Shayla began, but he waved her silent.

"As for my wardrobe, a staggering, disheveled survivor will inspire no confidence at all. No matter who emerges from the rubble, all of those wonderfully powerful people you need to cow will assume the emergent had advance knowledge of events. No one will believe that slaves did this alone, and I, in particular, will be considered a certain traitor when I ascend. Very well. If I'm to be suspected of perfidy, let me at least be suspected to be good at it. Let me be groomed and immaculate, the better to terrify. Fear will work as well as respect in the early days, and you need such control to ensure change."

Fenris shifted and crossed his ghostly arms.

"And finally," said Dorian, "I'm not unsympathetic to your cause, but let me remind you that you've killed many people I did not hate. And many I did, to be fair, but I'm not some radicalized devotee. I will be Archon, as I promised, but we'll be partners. Equals. I am not -"

He stopped, and Fenris smiled. "Not our slave? And you were doing so well, Pavus."

The elf stepped forward, all aggression, and it took every ounce of courage Dorian had to stand his ground. Fenris studied him for a minute, that faint smile still in place, and suddenly the glow vanished. "Very well. Partnership. You're just foolish enough to please them and just intelligent enough to be useful to us. An ideal situation."

"How flattering," said Dorian, and Fenris's smile became more genuine. "Are we safe?"

Fenris shrugged. "As safe as anywhere, right now. No one will think to look for us here."

Dorian toyed with asking where they were, then said instead, "I could place wards. I don't expect you have many mages among your group, and it could give your guards advance warning."

"We have guards enough, magister," said Fenris, but there was no rancor in his voice. "I appreciate the offer, but your strength may be needed elsewhere."

An ache crossed his face as he stretched his fingers, and Dorian eyes followed the tattoos. "Can I help with those?"

"It's a familiar pain," said Fenris. "Truthfully, I don't know who I'd be without it anymore." His eyes hardened. "It's difficult to be a free man when the chains are branded on your skin."

Dorian looked away. The strangers, elves and humans both, had put away their weapons and were in cautious talks with his allies. Maxwell was already charming two of the women and would likely have them converted to Inquisition forces before the hour was out. As he talked, the hand with the anchor waved around him, a meaningless scrawl in the air. Or, if it had meaning, it was beyond Dorian's ability to comprehend.

"The horrors inflicted by this world are immense," said Dorian. "Whether by men or gods. I'm sorry for yours."

Fenris coughed, and Dorian looked back at him. "Shayla claims that your chains are no less absent, for all they're invisible," he said. "I don't know that I believe her, but if it's so I return your sorrow."

"On the whole, I have little to complain about. It's good to be reminded of that, on occasion. Especially by handsome, glowing men."

His companion chuckled, then sobered as he stared across the room. "Did he tell you he loved you?"

Dorian nodded, and Fenris sighed. "Do you believe him?"

"Yes," Dorian lied. He wished. He prayed.

Maxwell glanced over, and he raised an eyebrow at whatever he saw on Dorian's face. Dorian blushed and looked down, and the moment passed.

"I hope it stays that way, for your sake," said Fenris. "Heroes are easily distracted." He shifted and looked to the hall. "You should rest. I can't imagine what you were doing was much like sleep, and you need to look strong when you go to the Magisterium. Or so you claim."

"A good idea," said Dorian. "Can we use the same room we were in?"

Fenris smirked at the pronoun. "Yes," he said. "We're looking for your other companions. It shouldn't be long. The Knight-Captain is ill-suited to concealment, and Varric is the only person I know who talks more than you do."

Dorian started, then grinned. "It slipped my mind that you knew them both, before. You'll have to tell me some stories later."

"As you command, Archon," said Fenris, but his subservient tones were edged with violence.

"That's not what I - I mean, it was just a figure of speech," sputtered Dorian.

Two arms wrapped around him from behind, and a square, scruffy chin rested on his shoulder. "I thought I was the only one who could do that to Dorian," said Maxwell.

Dorian's eyes narrowed, the better to distract him from his involuntary tingling, and he saw the humor lurking in Fenris's vicious expression. "Ah, so you make jokes," he said. "Wonderful."

"Even revolutionaries can't resist rubbing your gorgeous fur the wrong way," said Maxwell, kissing the join of his neck. He added, a little plaintively, "I want to go back to bed."

Fenris nodded them out of the room, and they made their way upstairs. When they were finally in bed once more, this time too exhausted to do anything but lay still, Maxwell said sleepily, "This is nice."

The bulk of the warrior's body was pressed very firmly against Dorian's back, calloused hands stroking his arms in easy waves, and Dorian couldn't agree more. "As long as you don't snore, anyway," he said.

"Fenris likes you," said Maxwell unexpectedly. "Even though you're his most hated enemy. Very impressively done."

"Are you jealous?" asked Dorian, his eyes closed. Jealousy was both ludicrous and unnecessary, as Maxwell well-knew by Dorian's lovemaking histrionics, but any opportunity to trade wit would put them back on more even footing.

Maxwell hummed. "I know how much you like elves. And you like fighters. He's both, which sounds very dangerous to me. Almost as dangerous as the way his eyes followed you out of the room. Why do you have to be so beautiful, anyway?"

"Would you prefer me to be hideous?" asked Dorian, and Maxwell didn't answer. Dorian shifted into a more comfortable position and tried to find the balance between reassurance and desperation. "I already have a man who glows. Two would be simply unmanageable. You have nothing to worry about."

"I'm the Inquisitor." Maxwell's voice was sleep-fuzzed and trailing off into unconsciousness, and Dorian followed him into the depths of sleep. "I have to worry about everything."

* * *

Maxwell's dreams were sharper and darker than usual, full of Solas and Cole and arguments about his anchor, but his awakening was pure joy when Dorian's unmistakably smooth hand ran over his torso.

"Good morning," he said, rolling over to nuzzle into the mage's neck. "Miss me all night?"

Dorian laughed quietly. "Should I have?"

"It's been at least four hours since you kissed me," said Maxwell. "More if they let us sleep late. That's an eternity."

"The Maker and his blasphemous bride," said Dorian, his voice a little amazed. "And here I thought we'd reached the upper limits of your conceit. If we descend any further into blissful bed-sharing, I fear your head may explode."

Maxwell frowned and stopped kissing his way up Dorian's tanned, warm skin. He propped himself on his elbow and looked down into a half-asleep face. "You think I'm conceited?"

Dorian reached up and cupped his cheek. "It's impossible for a man so flawless to overvalue himself," he said. "My apologies. I promise to adore you unstintingly for the entire rest of the day."

It was a cheeky apology at best, but it was impossible not to forgive someone who looked so fetching with sleep-tousled hair. Maxwell grudgingly allowed Dorian to kiss him, and it was just turning heated when a violent banging on the front door of the house had them both scrambling off the bed.

"Is that a siege weapon?" asked Dorian as he pulled on his pants.

Maxwell jammed a hand through his shirt sleeve and ran to the door as another boom sounded through the mansion. "Not quite that big. But it doesn't sound good."

As they skidded down the hall, a voice yelled through the door, "I know you have them. Release your prisoners, and we'll leave you in peace." There was a pause before the pounding resumed again. "I really mean it!"

Dorian stopped at the top of the stairs and gaped. "Cullen?"

Maxwell braced himself against the wall and laughed until he thought his sides would split, which was just as well because Cassandra raced past him so quickly she would have knocked all of them headlong down the staircase.

"Cullen," she yelled. "Cullen, it's me."

A sudden silence fell. "Cassandra?" said Cullen from behind the door.

She opened it just as Varric swung into view from the back of the house, brandishing Bianca like a highwayman. "Okay, okay, my girl is loaded and really pissed, so why don't you just - wait, what?"

A contingent of soldiers, clearly Inquisition-trained, flowed through behind the dwarf, then stopped short as Fenris and his own unit flanked them from the sides. They all blinked at each other, caught halfway between aggression and confusion, and Maxwell noted with amusement, and vague arousal, that even Dorian was smothering laughs. Dammit, Dorian was going to be even more distracting than he'd been before.

He got himself under control and descended into the suddenly motionless entryway with Dorian at his side. "This was your plan?" he asked Cullen, who was looking between him and Cassandra in bewilderment. "Knock loudly on the door and scream while people sneak in from the back?"

"Hey, it almost worked," said Varric, slinging his weapon over his back. "Broody. Fancy meeting you in the middle of a slaughter. It's just like old times. Terrible guard rotations you have."

"You should have let me set those wards," Dorian called out.

Fenris rolled his eyes and ignored him. "Dwarf," said Fenris. "I'm amazed you made it so far into the house without needing to hear the sound of your own voice."

Varric grinned, then tipped a salute to Cassandra, who ignored it completely. The Seeker only had eyes for Cullen, who was smiling a little ruefully at her. The Commander did look rather glorious in the soft morning light, and Maxwell made a mental note to get them alone together as soon as possible. Now that he'd finally secured his own elusive quarry, it was only fair that he help those around him reach the same end. He was practiced at good deeds, and his expertise would be useful.

That was for later, though. "But how did you find us?" asked Maxwell. "And where did the soldiers come from?"

"I helped," said Cole, who was suddenly perched on the post at the bottom of the stair railings, startling curses out of most of the room. Maxwell thought it very leaderly of him when he only jumped back a few inches. Fenris traveled nearly a whole foot, he noted with a smirk.

The lead Inquisition sword-holder turned to follow the movement, and Maxwell sighed. "Sergeant Traynor. Of course it's you."

"Hello, ser," said Eustace with a very correct salute. He dropped his hand and nodded to Maxwell's companion, a broad smile on his face. "Dorian. I thought you might need rescuing."

"Well, well, someone has certainly gone up in the world. And so very quickly," said Dorian, a touch of flirtation in his voice. "Congratulations on your promotion, Private."

Perfect. Another gorgeous warrior flitting around his mage. And this one had done a lot more than just flitting. Maxwell cut a dark look at Dorian, who winked back without an inch of shame. "Of course, there's only one Inquisitor," he added.

"Actually…" said Varric.

When no one followed up, Maxwell folded his arms. "Actually what?"

Cullen stepped inside the house and closed the door. "We believe that Leliana has declared herself Inquisitor upon reports of your death. And we are certain that our forces, and those of the Chantry, already approach Tevinter in a new Exalted March. They'll reach the border any day."

"We came in warning," said Eustace. "And to keep everyone alive that we could. Fortunately the city guard had somewhat collapsed with recent events."

But Maxwell didn't care about any of that. "Leliana _what_?" said Maxwell.

"The Chantry declared war against the Imperium?" said Dorian. "Vivienne must be out of her senses."

"Yeah, that's just crazy," said Sera, swinging over the railing. "But I always say, you can't trust pretty Orlesians."

Maxwell folded his arms and thought furiously. No one else said a word as they all stared at him, waiting for him to save the world once more.

* * *

Fenris finally broke the silence. "You need to leave to announce your new position, Archon. The remaining Magisterium will be gathering."

"Now?" asked Dorian. Maxwell was staring at the floor, mind no doubt whirling in lovely planning, and Dorian wasn't going to abandon him now. "Lovely sense of timing you have. Truly exemplary, but this might be a more pressing matter."

"No," said Fenris. "This only makes our own matters more pressing. If you're correct in assuming we will have no ally, now including your Inquisition, a unified Tevinter is vital. The slaves will be the first to fall in any conflict." The elf raised an eyebrow. "And what will you be able to do here, in any case?"

Dorian frowned, and Maxwell came out of his trance. "Dorian is a valued member of my council," he said. "And you're right about Tevinter, but not about the Inquisition. That won't be a problem. Once it's known I'm alive, Leliana will relinquish her claims, and I'll talk them down from this. Including the Chantry. In the meantime, I'm going with you to the Magisterium."

"No," said Dorian, Fenris, Cullen and Cassandra in chorus.

Maxwell threw his hands in the air. "Come on!" he said. He turned a wounded puppy gaze on Dorian. "Don't you want me there?"

Dorian blinked, a little taken aback with this newly ingratiating man, but he only said, "I do. But the risks are vastly beyond the rewards of your dashing presence."

"If the risks are that severe, that's exactly why I should be there," said Maxwell seriously, crossing his arms. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"You're the one who keeps getting injured when we're together!"

"But I always live," said Maxwell brightly. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "We shouldn't fight in front of the children."

Cassandra and Cullen rolled their eyes, Fenris looked ready to explode, and Varric's face had the same set look as when the flesh-and-blood Bianca was in the vicinity.

And that was more than enough. Dorian grabbed Maxwell's arm and yanked him through the hall into an empty study. The other man didn't fight, and when Dorian slammed the door and spun around to face him, he was grinning. "And here I thought you wouldn't take the hint. That should buy us at least fifteen minutes."

Before Dorian could yell at him, Maxwell wound his arms around his neck and pulled him into a deep kiss. Dorian opened his mouth instinctively, and Maxwell swept in with a groan of need. They fell back against a bookcase, rattling what was inside, and Dorian broke away with a hiss.

Maxwell switched tactics, nipping his way along Dorian's jaw. "Mmm. It's going to get much noisier if I get my way."

Sweet Maker, it really was unfair how sexy Trevelyan was. "This side trip was for conversation, not fornication," said Dorian, leaning back into the shelves. "We need to be thinking about how to handle this crisis."

"This helps me think," murmured Maxwell. "You're very inspiring."

He pressed closer, working a hard thigh between Dorian's legs and claiming his mouth once more. Dorian gave in to the temptation, briefly, and slid a hand up Maxwell's cheek. He felt hands running down his sides, and counted down, reaching one exactly at the moment they reached his ass.

Dorian pulled back, rubbing a thumb over Maxwell's cheek. "You really are obsessed, aren't you?" he said affectionately.

"There are worse obsessions." The Inquisitor sighed and leaned away. "It's almost cruel that now that I know I can do this whenever I want, the world is conspiring to stop me from doing it. Fine. Let's talk. You don't want me to go with you."

"I do want you to, personally. But it's a horrendous idea, in every other sense."

"Why?"

"Because the streets will be full of angry citizens and untethered spirits. Because your people are marching on my country. Because I'd hardly be much of a Tevinter solution if it looks like I'm only a figurehead for the Inquisition, even if you weren't marching on my country," said Dorian. "Because the rest of your allies will need your help in coming up with a plan to manage what's happening. Because they need you to know that you care about them at least as much as you care about my humble self." He paused as Maxwell winced, then added, "And because Fenris will accept me, but I don't trust him with you in the least."

"You expect me to send you out there with only that homicidal elf to protect you?" asked Maxwell. "Absolutely not."

Dorian frowned. "I do protect myself as well, Maxwell."

"I know," he replied. He leaned down and gave Dorian a softer, gentler kiss. "I just love you, that's all."

 _How does he always do this?_ thought Dorian as his every annoyance melted away. "Then you have to trust me, _amatus_. Believe that I can do this alone."

Maxwell fell silent, studying his face intently. Dorian didn't know what he saw there, or how it made him feel, but eventually he nodded. "If that's what you need. I'll stay here. But you have to promise me you'll come back safely."

Dorian blinked, then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "No more arguments?"

"No." Maxwell smiled. He looked a little lost, but surely that was only the dim light in the room. He was the type of man who would never be lost. "I told you, I'll do whatever I can to make you happy. I don't want to give you a reason to leave me."

Maker's breath, maybe Maxwell really did love him. Dorian pulled him down to kiss him again, full and gentle and beautifully sweet. _Maker be with this man_ , prayed Dorian as another tear worked its way down his cheek. Perhaps he would never stop crying when they were together.

"Are you happy?" asked Maxwell a little uncertainly when they were done.

"Breathlessly," said Dorian. "Perfectly, incandescently, sublimely, celestially…"

Maxwell silenced him with a finger to his lips, his smile returning to its usual self-confident self. "Good."

They crashed back together, pushing up against hard shelves and twisting into each other, until Varric pounded on the door, claiming they'd been given more than enough time to work out a hundred lover's quarrels. When Maxwell emerged and stated that he would remain behind while Dorian and Fenris traveled to the Magisterium, the entire room only stared.

"What?" said Maxwell.

"Damn, Sparkler," said Varric. "We could have used you back when Josephine was arguing with him about new furnishings for the hall. It would have saved a lot of boring meetings."

Maxwell protested as the Inquisition members all snickered, but before they moved into the dining room, he turned back and gave Dorian a final kiss. "It's true. You could talk me into anything. Now go out there and show your countrymen exactly how lucky they are to have you."

He disappeared into the room with a wink while Dorian sighed in a way that was certainly not smitten. Fenris coughed behind him, and Dorian whirled and glared at his knowing smirk.

"Don't you say a word," said Dorian. "Point me to my wardrobe, and then let's go."


	18. Who's Next?

As soon as Dorian left, everything was easier. Maxwell had thought it impossible to ignore the memory of the Tevinter man, not to mention the tempting, untouchable closeness of him after he returned, but they were nothing compared to his overwhelming presence when he'd finally been caught. Not only was he obvious foreground, a giant on a battlefield that demanded the attention of every foe, but Dorian was so shifting, so difficult to contain. He was like a fish between clutching hands, and it took all of Maxwell's concentration to keep from grasping too hard or releasing too much. To keep them at that delicate balance where they could be at peace.

But that peace would mean nothing if all of Thedas fell around them, and Leliana, Vivienne, and even Fenris and the rest were doing their damnedest to make that happen. The Inquisitor needed to fix it. And he would. But it was difficult to find the Inquisitor inside of himself when the man wanted nothing more than to whisk Dorian into a silent, secret room and reaffirm that he hadn't yet walked away.

Fenris and Eustace's eyes had been heavy on Dorian's figure, and Maxwell's unfamiliar agony and fear were paralyzing. The idea that he could _lose_ , and that the loss might change him, was uncomfortably alien.

An insurrection, an army, a political fight for power; they were nothing. Trifles, easily contained. Dorian Pavus, smiling faintly with that dangerous sparkle in his eyes, soft lips still holding back any words of devotion - he was another story entirely.

Maxwell had always thought love would be a little less terrifying than this.

Dorian had said he was happy, though. He'd asked for Maxwell's trust, and it had seemed so important to him in that room, eyes serious and mouth pleading. He'd been so gorgeous, so sad, so desperate. What else could Maxwell do but give in? Against all his better judgments, against every instinct he had, he'd let Dorian leave. Somehow, since the night of Leliana's party, Dorian's priorities had become his own, and that was the most worrying of all. It made him weak not to take his direction from himself alone, not to walk the path set by his own feet. But it made Dorian strong, and that was what truly mattered.

So now Dorian was gone, alone. And Maxwell would lock that scared, new part of him away in his mind and become himself once more.

The dining room was mostly silent when he finally entered, the taste of magic still on his lips. Shayla was standing in as the rebels' voice, and while a sizable number of her people were there, there were fewer than there had been. When he raised an eyebrow at her, she nodded outside, and he understood. They were shadowing Fenris and Dorian on their journey, hidden guards, and the part of himself behind the door calmed very slightly.

He frowned as his eyes roved over Eustace and his squad, standing guard at the door, but he couldn't help a smile when he lit on Cullen and Cassandra, the only people in the room speaking. He was fussing over the rope marks on her wrists while she protested irritably, but Maxwell couldn't help but notice that she didn't pull away. While he watched, Cullen pulled a jar of salve out of his waist pouch and ran it in soothing circles over her raw skin.

The Commander stayed focused on his task, only looking up when Maxwell took a seat across from him. "Stern military commander, dashing rescuer of damsels, and now gentle healer? If we can somehow make you a pirate captain with the requisite heart of gold, I think you'll have every romantic ideal covered. Right, Varric?"

The dwarf tipped back his chair to throw his booted feet on the antique table. "You forgot about sensitive artist reading poetry by moonlight," he said. Cassandra glared, and he chuckled. "But we can save that until after this new war is over, I suppose."

Cullen fixed his eyes back on Cassandra's wrist, but his voice was calm when he said, "I won't fight my own men."

"Nor should you have to," said Cassandra, earning a smile from her ministering angel. It only broadened when she added, "Though you would win."

"I don't want to fight anyone either," said Maxwell. "You know my motto. Talk first, fight second."

Sera laughed, high and loud, and he sighed. "Well, I try. But some people are just begging for an immediate ass-kicking," he said. He pounded the table. "But not this time. We'll be able to resolve it peacefully. Somehow."

A sea of skeptical faces stared at him. "You think you have more miracles in you? Most people only get one, not a dozen," asked Varric.

"Of course I do. But I need more information first," said Maxwell, turning to Eustace. "First, how did the Inquisition react to this all so quickly? It's only been a day. Less really. But they're already sending troops, declaring war, allying with the Chantry? I realize that Leliana is the best-informed person in Thedas, but that's impossible. I was here for all of it, and even I barely know what's going on. And the Chantry should be even less aware."

There was a strained, pointed silence, and Maxwell folded his arms. "What am I missing?"

"It wasn't a reaction, Inquisitor," said Cullen reluctantly. "We believe plans were already in motion before we left Skyhold, and the combined armies marched behind us for most of our journey."

"It's true, Your Grace," said Eustace. "The first dispatch we received from command after we relayed your border crossing was that we should scout for enemy forces in preparation for an invasion. It said that you had died. That was a week ago."

Maxwell stared. "I'm not dead now, and I was even less dead then."

"Yes, ser. We also had our doubts on this point. I… interpreted our orders to mean that we should range into Tevinter to determine the circumstances, and veracity, of your death. I'm very sorry, Commander."

A deep frown had settled on Cullen's face while the sergeant spoke. "Based on current events, I can hardly fault your skepticism," he said. "But I do wonder what made you so doubtful, given the dangerous nature of our mission. It's hardly inconceivable that we were dead or captured."

 _Except that I never die_ , thought Maxwell, but he judged it wasn't quite the time for that sort of joke.

Eustace shifted in his guard stance, then sighed and looked over at a handsome woman in his squad. She had a soft face, surprisingly so for a soldier, topped by a mane of glossy blonde hair. "Private Tanner received a letter from a member of the Chargers insinuating that things were not as they seemed at Skyhold."

Sera stopped twirling an arrow between her fingers and leaned forward. "Grim told you that?" she asked. When the private nodded, Sera grinned. "Little people will get you every time. And the quiet ones are the deadliest. Leliana'll go mental when she finds out."

"Oh come on, you know Bull told him to do it," said Varric. "He knows who's sleeping around better than any of us. I always wondered why he stayed behind. This must be it."

When Sera scoffed, he added, "Hey, if he wanted to break Tevinter, he'd just go back to the Qunari. Or he'd seduce Dorian away from the Inquisitor, work his way inside. He's not one for holy wars and coups. Too messy."

"He did ask Dorian to sleep with him," said Maxwell darkly. Was there a warrior in Thedas who hadn't?

But even Cassandra shook her head. "If he hadn't done so, I would be much more suspicious," she said, and Maxwell was forced to agree.

"Fine. Bull tipped us off. Good for him. When I see him next, I'll give him a handshake and a kiss on the lips," said Maxwell. "But it doesn't explain what Leliana is doing. Vivienne I can almost understand. She always hated Tevinter, Dorian especially, she's still pissed at me for not making Bastien immortal or whatever she was trying to do, and the Imperium has been blaspheming against the Chant even more than usual. Giselle gave me the impression we were going to fight with the Grand Cathedral soon enough anyway.

"But Leliana is still a member of the Inquisition! Allying with the Chantry against me? Against Tevinter? We were working for peace. It doesn't make sense."

Varric's chair hit the floor with a thunk. "Well, it's no secret you two haven't been seeing eye-to-eye recently."

"It's a secret to me," said Maxwell blankly. "What was wrong?"

"Are you kidding me?" asked Sera. When Maxwell only blinked at her, she rolled her eyes hugely. "Big boot nobles, always so sure we're marching to your tune you never stop to listen to the music playing. You didn't make her Divine, Vivi is putting the screws to mages even harder than before, and you've been cuddling up to a bunch of slave-owning assholes. People don't like it when you bring all of the enemies right inside their house, you know? Especially when you tell them their job is to keep them all out. And you've been playing 'Whose Is Biggest?' with her in all of those meetings. I'd have stolen your breeches a long time ago."

He looked at the rest of them. "Is this true?"

"There has been… tension recently," said Cassandra eventually. "We had hoped it would resolve naturally. Bull seemed confident he could contain it, but Dorian's arrival may have proved too much of an an accelerant for him."

"Don't blame this on Dorian," said Maxwell defensively. "It's not his fault."

"I am not blaming him," said Cassandra. "He merely catalyzed the situation."

Cullen wouldn't meet his eyes, and Varric's innocent look was more than enough chastisement. "Fine. Let's say that I've been a little high-handed recently," said Maxwell, pointedly ignoring Sera's snort. "To go from unrest and unhappiness to a coup, to an alliance with someone who's annoying her just as much, to an invasion, to asserting my death? That's a lot of steps to go through so rapidly, even with a catalyst. She could have talked to me. I may not be the best at listening to counsel, but even I'm not that unapproachable."

"The Nightingale isn't really a woman who negotiates for what she wants, you know," said Varric. "She stabs first and apologies later. After you've already bled out." He frowned. "But you're right, she's gone pretty far into the Deep Roads without a map on this one. Maybe she really does think you're dead."

"The dreams are Lothering," said Cole, his voice far away and light. "Impossible roses in the darkness, but she is the Maker's chosen and the roses are hers. His voice whispers, memories of a time that could have been. Rising against the fall, holding back the end. She will not fail this time."

Cassandra yanked her hand away from Cullen and stood, furious. "How do you know that?"

"It knows everything, yeah?" said Sera, wrinkling her knows. "With its spooky mind-stealing shite."

"It's okay, Sera," said Cole. He tilted his head like a bird, curious and kind. "The Maker doesn't have to be real to have a voice."

"Ugh, stop doing that!"

But Maxwell was focused on Cassandra. "Did that mean something to you?"

The Seeker paced, back and forth and around the table. "Leliana had an… experience with the Maker, during the Blight. Visions that led her to the Hero. She spoke about it often with Justinia. But she believed she'd failed in His charge. The Hero died, and it tore at her. We never could convince her that the Maker's plan might have meant for the death to occur."

"She told me about that. Some of it. Vaguely," said Maxwell. "But she can't possibly think the Maker is telling her to wrest the Inquisition away from me to go to war with Tevinter."

Cassandra said nothing, and he stood to catch her arm on her next lap. "Do _you_ think that's what He's doing?"

He gave her time and space to think, watching her stare at the table blankly while he marshaled his own arguments against it. He'd trust Cassandra as a mouthpiece for the Maker over Leliana, and certainly over Vivienne. At least the Seeker would attempt impartiality. In fact, the only reason that Maxwell hadn't supported her for Divine was that Cullen likely would have followed her to the Grand Cathedral like an imprinted Mabari pup, and the Inquisition needed him too much.

Even now the man was watching her with an expression of utmost reverence, something not even the Herald of Andraste had been able to coax out of him.

So Cassandra would be fair, unlike the others. Unlike him. But while Maxwell was no stranger to creative interpretations of the Maker's will, he at least had more than his own ambitions in mind when he did. And the last thing Thedas needed was a war.

Cassandra looked at Cullen when she finally spoke, as though taking strength from his belief. "No. I think the Maker's will is here," she said, and the blonde man nodded. Her eyes ranged left, and Maxwell started when he remembered that Shayla and the rest of the rebels were still there. "The breaking of chains, Dorian's ascension, the survival of the Herald from circumstances that should have resulted in death… His hand is visible. And I do not believe He would do this all to see you set aside."

Maxwell relaxed as she continued, "But this does not mean that other pieces are not ordained. Perhaps this war is what is needed. Perhaps we are breaking a bone to set it cleanly."

Dorian's weary voice rose in his mind, whispering how tired he was of death. Maxwell hadn't understood him then, not fully. The fight was the place where good and right found their sharpest home. But he felt alive with Dorian, whole, even as his mind scrabbled through fresh worries and fought to stand on shifting sand. Things were brighter and cleaner than they'd ever been. Maxwell didn't want to live under the looming specter of death anymore.

"I don't want a war," he said.

"Neither do I," said Cullen, just as tired.

Cassandra circled the table again to touch his hand. To Maxwell's surprise, when she took her seat next to the blonde man, she kissed his cheek with a sweetness he hadn't know she possessed. "When we go to the Maker, will we claim we defied our duty because it is what we did not want?" she asked softly. "You're too honorable to turn away."

Cullen lifted their joined hands and stared at them. "I'm not sure I deserve such praise."

"You do," she said firmly. "You surpass us all." Her lips lifted in a sad smile. "Justinia told me, just after she met you, that the beauty of your honor would shame the heavens and break the hearts of saints."

The Commander colored slightly and looked away, then shook himself when he saw Varric's broad grin. "Don't put that in your book."

"The muses are willful," said Varric. "Sometimes they can't help themselves."

Cassandra released her grip and glared. "I will run you through with my sword," she said as she leaned back. She fixed her gaze on Maxwell, cheeks only slightly pink. "Dorian may find a solution we cannot conceive to avert this. In the meantime, I believe we must plan for what we do not want, in the hopes that we will not receive it."

The rest of the room nodded reluctantly. Cullen cleared his throat and sat forward. "What are our assets?"

"Our biggest asset is that Vivienne and Leliana will never work smoothly together," said Maxwell. "Particularly if Leliana is claiming divine direction. Vivienne cornered the market on that kind of talk years ago. They'll be on the verge of falling apart before they get here, and we can use that."

"Nothing easier than getting two Orlesians to fight," said Varric. "Getting soldiers to lay down their arms? That's trickier."

"The Inquisitor's continued life will aid with this," said Cassandra. "Either Leliana has been deceived, in which case she may falter, or the soldiers will see her willful deception and doubt. While she commands great loyalty with her people, the man who saved the world can challenge those heights. And the Chantry alone lacks the forces to continue, given the rawness of their Templar trainees."

"But we'll have to meet them somehow at the border. Those Tevinter troops were massing, and if Leliana is smart she'll avoid them and head north. But the more skirmishes there are, the harder it will be to stop them," said Maxwell. He turned to Shayla. "Will your people rally if I declare for peace? Or will they fight regardless?"

Her eyes narrowed in thought, and she looked around at the rest of her group. "I think they would rally. We wanted a civil war and personal freedom, not to conquer all of Thedas. We wanted to bring the South in, not destroy them," she said. "And despite my brother's feelings, there's much love for you in Tevinter among the recently freed. To become Andrastian, in secret, has gained in popularity since you became the Herald and killed so many mages and slavers. A small kind of rebellion against our oppressors. That you were here for the moment of our release will carry weight. They might believe it ordained."

"Good," said Maxwell. "Religious fervor is one of the most uniting things there is. And who can say? Perhaps Andraste did send me here, at this time, for this reason."

Cassandra nodded firmly, and Cullen echoed her. As they continued to talk logistics, strategy, and counter moves, Maxwell prayed to the Maker for the strength to succeed once more. The prayer joined with the constant one from behind the door, the one desperate for Dorian's safety, and perhaps by the time they reached His ears, they would be so intertwined that He would have no choice but to grant them both.

* * *

A half-mile from the mansion, Dorian looked around in surprise. "This is the slave district," he said. He gave Fenris an accusing look. "You took over a slaver's mansion?"

"Danarius's wealth came mostly from slave trade, yes," said Fenris.

"That was _Danarius's_ place? How did you stop it from passing to his heirs when he died?"

"Who said I killed him? A man can live for a long time, given the proper care," said Fenris. His eyes glittered in the noon-light. "You may wish to avoid the basement, magister."

Dorian began to regret leaving Maxwell behind, though the look on Fenris's face implied that there might be a set of shackles waiting for the Inquisitor alongside Danarius. "You certainly know how to make a man feel comfortable," he said, for lack of anything else to say.

The death bells of the Chantry rang out over the city, the pattern that meant a government leader's death. There would be more, Dorian knew, and he wondered which near-enemy's these were. He wondered if Livia would have bells. Or Maevaris.

A group of slaves passed them, silent as always, but they made no attempt to hide the pleased smiles on their faces as they might have before. A large man led them, likely the bodyguard of some dead magister given his obvious training, and he gave Fenris and Dorian a startled look. When he growled and dropped into an aggressive stance, Dorian stiffened, then shielded and prepared to fight. _No more terrifying than a Red Templar_ , he told himself, trying to ignore the fact that Maxwell had taken the majority of the blows in those fights.

Fenris shook his head, though Dorian wasn't sure if it was for him or for their enemy. He said something in a language Dorian didn't understand, and the large man relaxed. He didn't say anything else, and the slaves passed them without another look.

"He thought I was your prisoner," said Fenris when they started walking again. "I told him you were mine."

"I suppose that's about right," said Dorian. He looked around as he dropped the barrier. "I'm surprised there's not more looting."

"My people don't want to destroy what they hope to attain," said Fenris. "Besides, who better than a slave to know where the valuables are and aren't? We have no need to smash the world to find what we need." He cut a sidelong look at Dorian. "You guarded us both."

"They were going to attack us both."

"You're very strange," said Fenris to himself, but he didn't follow up.

They walked in silence for a time through the heart of Minrathous, a place that was familiar but also felt new. Dangerous. It was like a mage possessed, changed from the inside, a different soul inside the same body. Though in this case, it was difficult to know which way the poison had flowed. Fenris likely had a different opinion of its source than he did.

When they made it to the government district, a place of high columns and polished marble, Dorian finally said, "Tell me about Hawke." Not that he really wanted to know, but the quiet, the absolute abandonment of the place, was starting to unnerve him.

From the amused light in Fenris's eyes, he knew it.

"The Champion of Kirkwall was born in Lothering to a runaway noble and an apostate mage," Fenris began, falling silent when Dorian waved at him irritably.

"Yes, yes, I suppose I deserved that."

He said nothing else, and eventually Fenris said quietly, "He taught me to read. Danarius kept that skill from me, deliberately I'm certain. I don't remember much of my childhood, but Shayla tells me that I loved stories and tales, and Danarius loved nothing more than to deny any joy from his possessions. And after I was free, I was too embarrassed to learn. Embarrassed and uncertain how one would go about such a thing. Until Hawke."

Dorian watched Fenris's face without appearing to, and he wondered if he looked that way when he talked about Maxwell. Like a man who'd taken a blow upside the head and was enjoying every second of it. He hoped not. Not only would the dazed grin look terrible with his sophisticated grooming, but everyone would think him a terrible sap.

"He was a patient teacher. The way his mouth formed the letters, his voice the sounds, and then they were on the page, waiting to be understood. It was like a new kind of magic, one I'd never thought to find. He was a new kind of magic," said Fenris. His lips moved as he read a passing sign, and he smiled to himself. "I still hear him in every line that I read. It's the way I remember him best, bent over a book in his library, miserable for the sitting still, but enduring. For me."

The elf shook himself and glared at Dorian. "And he killed people more efficiently than anyone I've ever seen, save myself. That was Hawke," he said. His eyes narrowed further. "Did you sleep with him?"

"I'm afraid not," said Dorian. "Not that I didn't try, of course, but I got the impression he didn't much like mages. Especially Tevinter mages. And I don't go where I'm not welcome." He cut a look at the suddenly more cheerful man beside him and added wickedly, "From what I observed, his inclinations fell more towards lithe elves who knew how to handle a broadsword without fumbling it."

Fenris growled something under his breath about arrogant magisters, but his skin didn't glow as it usually would have.

They stopped in front of the Magisterium, and Dorian looked up at the building in apprehension. "Are you sure there will be people inside? The whole place feels a bit like the Grand Necropolis."

"My sources were clear. The remaining magisters are gathering."

"Very well," said Dorian. He paused. "We haven't discussed what you want out of all of this, and I presume my friends' lives are forfeit if I displease you, so perhaps we should get down to brass tacks before I talk my way into their graves."

Despite his words, he hoped that he was wrong. He almost liked this Fenris, a man who reminded him of Iron Bull with the way he used his outer simplicity to hide the complexity underneath. Like Bull, Fenris saw the truth of a person, but kept it mostly to himself. If the rebels hadn't almost killed Maxwell, and if Fenris hadn't threatened to do it later, Dorian could almost see the same sort of casual antagonism he had with Bull growing between them as well.

But Maxwell had almost died, and that was unforgivable.

"Your friends aren't bound to your choices," said Fenris, and Dorian gave him a disbelieving look. The elf smiled lazily. "Fear is an uncertain motivator. It will fade, and when it does, the results are… unpredictable. And none of this works if you only act out of terror. It will be partnership. As we discussed."

His smile sharpened. "Your own life, however, rests entirely in your hands. The privilege of all free men. Your choices decide your fate. As it should be for all," he said. "You ask what I want. What I want is for magisters and altuses and slavers to feel the whip, to serve us as we served them, generation after generation. I want them to suffer. But I understand that this desire leads nowhere. So what I request is a world in which no man can be owned and have it be called good. Where _this_ cannot be done again."

Fenris lifted his hand, now lit with lyrium fire, and laid it on Dorian's bare arm. "These markings are a curse. They took all memory of one sister and turned the other against me in the hope of a shred of power. Given to her, like scraps, when it should have been hers to take and set aside as she would. They made me flee from the only man who ever valued me more outside of the battlefield and the bedroom than in them. And yet they tell me I competed to wear them. I wanted nothing more than to be a _favored_ possession. To be owned more thoroughly, for the glory of being kept. There should be no world where that can be considered a prize."

Dorian swallowed heavily as the ghostly fingers grazed over and then into him, sinking slightly into the skin. It wasn't painful, as such, but he could feel the promise of pain waiting underneath, like a bridge that was rotting and waiting to break. Fenris's eyes, far away and rage-filled, said that he knew very well where that pain could be found. In a strange way it was fascinating, something new in a world that hadn't sent a new thing since Maxwell's anchor, and Dorian was half-tempted to look down to see the physical manifestations of the magic. But he hadn't eaten breakfast, and dry-heaving on the Magisterium's steps would likely set a bad tone.

"Does this hurt you?" asked Dorian, proud of the detached timbre of his voice.

The elf blinked and came back from whatever memory he'd been occupying. "No," he said. "It's mere resistance. Like dragging fingers through swampy water."

Charming. Dorian's stomach turned over, even as questions filled his mind, but he gauged that this wasn't the time to ask. Fenris removed his hand, and it phased back into existence as if it had never vanished.

"Passing through bone does hurt," Fenris volunteered with a hard smile, and Dorian raised an eyebrow. "Like knives scraping skin. But given that no one has ever survived the process of having it done, I imagine that touch must be more painful to receive than to give."

Sweet Maker, this man was much, much worse than Bull. "A good party trick."

His companion's smile turned more genuine. "I have used it at parties," he said, "but rarely ones I've been invited to." He stepped back and swept his arm in front of him like a gallant suitor. "After you, Archon."

* * *

The outer senate chamber was very loud. Only forty or so of the usual hundreds of magisters were present, but they were all at full bellow. The Divine was also present, holding court about the judgments of heaven and fulfilled prophecies at a volume more suited for a cathedral than a foyer, but the clerics fluttering around him didn't seem to mind. No one noticed the new entrants.

Dorian gave Fenris a bewildered look, but the elf only leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. "This is your battlefield. Impress me, Pavus."

"Could you do your trick with the Fade, that you did in the alley? Make it vanish?"

"I could do it to _you_ ," said Fenris. "It doesn't have much of a range beyond that."

"Thank you, you've been the very picture of help," said Dorian. He stepped forward and took a breath, hoping beyond hope it wouldn't turn into a magical fight. He could probably win. Despite what he'd told Maxwell, he was one of the strongest mages in the Imperium. There were just so many more of them than there were of him.

Before he could say a word, a golden head detached itself from the throng, and he found himself enveloped in a perfumed hug. "Dorian," said Maevaris, clearly relieved. "The Maker is good to us."

"So they claim," said Dorian, detaching himself carefully and trying not to let his own relief show. "I'm so pleased you survived, darling."

"Yes," she said, but her eyes went over Dorian's shoulder and settled on Fenris. "I see you've fallen in with the right crowd."

Her gaze moved back to his face, and Dorian's jaw dropped at what he saw there. No more dissembling and frippery, just cunning and knowledge and pride. "You… you knew?"

"The Lucerni support this cause," she said. "Slavery built a shining country with a rotten core. The Venatori would never have risen so highly without it. You spoke very eloquently about the impossibility of change in the body while the head remained in place. Granted you were very drunk, but you were still quite eloquent."

"The Lucerni were meant to foster small changes from within. Gathering the powerless and giving them a voice." An idea stolen from Sera, not that he would ever admit it to her. "I didn't call for a mass slaughter," he hissed.

Maevaris smiled indulgently. "Of course not. But you always have surrounded yourself with those who have the will to carry out your vision. It's one of your best features," she said. "Now the work can truly begin."

"Maxwell could have _died_ ," said Dorian, furious. "Your will almost killed him."

The blonde woman paled. "Is he alive?" she asked. Her fan fluttered nervously at her waist. "I watched your glasses so carefully, but I never thought of him…"

"No. You didn't."

"Forgive me, Dorian," said Maevaris, voice low and pleading. "You weren't supposed to be there. Neither of you were. Had I known there was a risk… I would have done something. Changed something. Believe me." She blinked away a tear, and Dorian smiled against his will at her still-distinguished skills. Not that she wasn't sincere, in her way. But Maevaris only cried when it would serve her cause, and she knew that he knew that as well as anyone.

He turned to glance at Fenris, who was still watching him carefully, and he pushed his anger away for a more useful time. "Well, we're here now. And Maxwell is alive. Assuming he stays that way, I suppose I can't hold on to vexation. And it's true we did crash the party."

"As you always did," said Maevaris. "I should have expected it." She stepped back, her court smile on once more. "Now, we will vote for Archon. And I expect that it won't take very long at all."


	19. Walking Bomb

"He invited the Inquisition to our doorsteps! Inside the very nation we are sworn to protect!" screamed a bloated magister across the floor.

Dorian kept up his insouciant mask, though internally he was rubbing his temples. The outcome of the vote was pre-ordained. Between the backing of the Lucerni, the weak-minded fools who hadn't been important enough to receive good wine at the party, and the sudden lack of a roll call, there was no doubt he would carry the majority of remaining votes. While magister's seats usually passed from parent to child - or sibling, in some cases - the Archon's blessing was still required to legally put them in the Senate. A technicality, ignored for centuries due to the cowed congeniality of their rulers, now become a problem. And an advantage.

And though Radonis had acknowledged him as the heir to House Pavus, had even called him magister, the final spells had not yet been triggered nor the papers signed for Dorian to be on the council proper. Another useful oversight, as he didn't need to argue his eligibility for the position.

Once it had become clear he had all the allies he needed, Dorian had almost called for a vote immediately, but Maevaris assured him that the more unified the Magisterium was around him, the better things would be. Why that was was unclear, given that he could fill any and all open seats with whomever he chose to gain a larger coalition, but she'd sounded very certain. And so they were arguing with the handful of hard-line traditionalists who'd been away from Minrathous during the party. Another dozen or so were still gone, off in Seheron or locked in a basement by a glowing, angry elf, but apparently they weren't important to convince.

And all the rest were dead. The session closing parties had been very popular.

"In your protests you make our arguments for us," said Maevaris smoothly. "Who better to repel the Inquisition than the man with such close connection to them? The Inquisitor values Altus Pavus's wisdom and guidance. Even Radonis wished to be on peaceful terms with their leader. He would support this."

"He would set the curtains on fire to even hear Pavus's name spoken for the position," said the main rabble-rouser. "A reformer. Practically a southerner. And a _deviant_."

But that was an old insult, passed around the halls for ages, and Dorian had been more than prepared for it. "Is that a note of envy I detect in your voice? I'd be more than happy to provide lessons in cheerful debauchery after we've concluded business here," he said with a gleaming smile. "Though I believe the men and women at the The Crystal Gem would tell me that I should be taking lessons from you!"

It had been a mere shot in the dark, an educated guess based on the brothel's clientele, but by the way the man's face turned purple, Dorian was a very good nighttime archer. He smiled more widely into the silence and acknowledged Fenris's small nod with one of his own.

But that seemed to give the man courage again. "I assume that slave is your lover," he spat. "Unconscionable. Your father barely returned to the Maker before you bring your lewd behavior into this holy ground."

"Wrong on all counts," said Dorian, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. He hadn't forgotten that his parents' killers might well be in this room. "He's not my lover, this ground is far from holy, and I'm afraid I was lewd in this building long before my father passed through the Veil. Oh, and the elf is no slave. He's my advisor. A voice for the newly swelled Soporati ranks."

Muttering broke out, even among the weak-willed fools, and Dorian crossed his arms. "Gentlemen. Ladies. Tevinter has changed. Granted through force, but the effects are irreversible. The Magisterium can bury its head in the sand, blithely pretending that a little flick of magic will be enough to bring the masses back into submission, at least until its remnants are slaughtered in those dark little holes. It can war with itself, expending all energy inward, before the Qunari and Orlesian knives find its back. Or, it can acknowledge the change and work to ensure it's for the better."

He stepped forward and put all of his power behind his voice. "I am an Altus. I respect the magical traditions of our land even while I see the rotten center of its arrogance. I have a connection to the ruling class which will be difficult to match, support of the lower classes which will be impossible to replicate, and friends outside of Tevinter who will be invaluable. In short, I am the best choice you have to keep yourselves in robes and out of chains. Or out of the Maker's waiting arms."

No one protested, and Dorian relaxed slightly. A clerk stepped forward, wearing the robes of the Archon's office, and said quietly, "If I may speak."

Dorian knew enough to let the bloviating magister be the one to incline his head in acceptance, and Maevaris smiled at him.

The clerk turned to Dorian and bowed. "Archon Radonis has no named heir to his office, as you know. He did not… he had many years ahead of him for such a decision," said the woman. "Nevertheless, when he arrived here, already ill, he suggested a successor."

"Radonis is here?" asked Dorian, startled.

"I believe he is dead, Altus Pavus," said the woman evenly, but he saw the tightening of her eyes.

"Yes, of course. Forgive me, and please accept my sympathies in your time of grief."

The clerk looked a little surprised, but her face was pleased as she nodded. "Before the Archon locked himself in his office, he suggested that you be the new Archon. It's not a binding inheritance. There is no compulsion to follow, but I wished to share what I knew. His wishes," she added quietly.

"Yes, thank you," said the fat magister. "We'll certainly take that under advisement. Nevertheless -"

The Divine pushed forward and silenced the man with a shower of sparks. Dorian raised his eyebrow. The Divine wasn't a particularly strong mage - they were never wasted on prayers - and while he might show some flash and glitter during a service, to challenge someone in the Magisterium was near-suicide.

But before the interrupted man could gather his own power, the Divine threw out his hands. "I have spoken to the Maker," he said. "Magic should serve man, and He declares his newest servant shall be Dorian Pavus. So it has been spoken!" When the quarrelsome magister opened his mouth, the Divine glared at him. "It has been spoken!"

 _What, just now?_ thought Dorian, internally rolling his eyes. This particular Divine did certainly love to tout his personal connection to the Beyond. While it was gratifying to have the support of the Chantry, such as it was, dramatic theatrics were only amusing if they were his own. Or Maxwell's. At least Vivienne had the decency to be a straightforward manipulator of believers.

"Excellent news. Shall we hold a vote, then?" he asked, gesturing towards the Magisterium's private chambers. "I would like to finish this before dinner."

* * *

Only members of the Magisterium, the Archon, and the Divine were allowed past the chamber doors, though whatever magic kept that rule seemed to understand that he was a candidate for one of those positions. Another of those little Tevinter mysteries no one ever wondered about overmuch.

Before Dorian passed under the arch, Fenris grabbed his arm in a fierce hold. "Remember your promises. The 'lower classes' will be watching, magister."

Dorian leaned close to the man's ear, as though they were the lovers he'd denied, both to keep his answer private and because he knew it would annoy Magister Killjoy to no end. "You'll have to come up with a new insult for me when I appoint you to the Magisterium's ranks, I'm afraid."

Fenris gaped as Dorian pulled himself free with a sunny smile and went through the doors.

The voting members were already gathered in their seats, looking sparse in the huge room. In a way that helped him, as those non-Lucerni members realized just how much of their strength had vanished beneath the rebel's magical poison. He walked to the front of the half-circle of seats, trying to appear as though he put in his candidacy for ruler of a country every day. His eyes found the seat marked "Pavus", and a small voice inside of him wondered if his father was watching behind the Veil. If he was proud.

Likely not, given his son was bedding a foreign interloper and about to turn his beloved country completely on its head.

Maevaris spoke when he arrived on the dais. "We are gathered to vote on the suitability of Altus Pavus for Archon. Given that there are no other candidates -"

Killjoy rose to his feet. "I submit myself," he said.

"Magisters don't become Archon," said Maevaris, some of her solemn ceremony vanishing into annoyance.

"Neither do traitors," he replied, making his way to the circle to stand beside Dorian. But not too closely. "I resign my seat to grant myself eligibility."

The blonde woman shrugged, and Dorian smiled to himself. Another obstacle vanished. A very foolish one, too. "Very well," she said. "Given that there are _two_ candidates, there will be three cups, one for each candidate and one to abstain for a later vote. A candidate's cup will require a two-thirds vote to rise to victory. Are we prepared?"

The magisters murmured quiet agreement, a rushing sound through the room, and three cups appeared on the long table in front of Dorian and Killjoy. A knife, more a dagger, lay beside them, gleaming and jeweled. A feeling like thunder filled the empty spaces around him, and Dorian looked up, trying not to panic. This wasn't what he'd expected. It was magic, certainly. Powerful, timeworn, dangerous magic. It crackled over his skin, demanding a wordless price. What exactly were they planning to do?

He realized he couldn't move at the same time he realized that none of the rest of them seemed surprised in the least.

One at a time each magister filed up to the front and whispered a small oath-spell as they took the knife in front of them and sliced a finger or a palm. Each cut was a note in a song, a symphony that was playing in his soul. Dorian remembered when his father had stood over him with blood running down his arms and desperation in his eyes. That song that had wanted him to become a new thing had been persistent but weak. He'd shut his ears to it easily, fleeing into the night like a ghost.

Each drop of blood that fell into his cup made this one more impossible to escape.

He turned his head to look at his competitor, who seemed to feel nothing. Was that possible? Was it only Dorian's lack of familiarity with blood magic that was affecting him? Perhaps it was that only a few drops had splashed into the other man's cup. Perhaps it was because Dorian was winning.

When they were finished, and he'd secured all but five of the magisters' votes, the floor beneath him dropped away and he fell, twisting, into a pool of magic deeper than any he'd ever known. Ancient, thrumming power filled him, and his head was too light. Everything was brightness and sharp lines, cutting at him. The world was too _real_ , and this was Maxwell all over again, a glory too immense to have a shape, much less a name. A thing that would destroy him for the wanting. He was back in the bedroom, a rainbow around him, and Maxwell was there. He would die this way, alone and empty, and Dorian begged him to fill him. To give him everything.

And the song obliged.

Dorian opened his eyes. He was still the senate chamber. The floor was intact, the world the same colors as always, and Maevaris was in front of him holding his cup.

"You don't expect me to drink that, I hope," he said weakly.

She smiled, and that was good. It was like they'd always been, and he was glad to know that there were parts of them that were the same. "No," she said. "But I hope you aren't fond of these robes."

"What do you mean?" he began, but before he could finish, she'd dumped the blood over his outstretched hands, trailing a line up to the amulets he wore, and he bit his lip against the rough pleasure of jolting power running through him.

"By the will of the Magisterium, Archon Pavus is anointed."

He looked down at his fingers, red-streaked and trembling, then back to Maevaris. Her magister's amulet hung heavy from her neck, and Dorian reached out to touch it. It flared brightly, an answering call to his power. A kinship between them, and Dorian wondered if his father had bled into a cup for Radonis, once upon a time. He understood now why she'd wanted to secure so many votes for him.

 _My very first blood magic_ , he thought dully. _And not a cut on me._

"What do I do now?" he asked, not sure if he was asking Maevaris or the room.

"You assume your office," she said, pointing to an inset in the wall. "We'll be waiting when you're done."

Killjoy had stalked out some time ago, Dorian realized, but that seemed unimportant now. When he stepped to the place she indicated, he held his bloody palm up to the wood. It swung open underneath him easily, and he wondered vaguely if he'd need to cover himself in blood every time he needed to get something from his new desk. He hoped not.

After he stepped inside, the door closed behind him. He barely noticed. The figure in the chair in front of him consumed all of his attention. The figure and the blood.

Radonis's head lolled back, pale and lifeless, and his arms were slashed to pieces to let the blood flow freely. It wasn't yet dried, and without conscious thought Dorian reached out to pull its lingering power to him. The motions seemed easy, obvious, like his first fire spell as a child. Twist like this, pull like that, reach into the Fade through a door that had always been there but needed a crimson key to unlock it.

Maker but there was so much _power_ inside of him.

When the locks and keys of his new spell were joined, he stepped back, a little horrified at the simplicity of what he'd done. Radonis's eyes opened and looked at him steadily. "Pavus. Good. I was hoping it would be you, if you were alive. But even if you were, magisters are as contrary as cats, and I never trusted them at all."

The corpse tried to steeple its fingers, but there were limits to the flexibility of dead flesh, and it quickly gave up. "Let me tell you what you need to know."

* * *

It was nightfall, and Dorian still wasn't back. Maxwell had broken up the war council hours before to save them from exhaustion, though Cullen and Cassandra had refused to be moved from their earnest planning. If luck held fast - and Varric's not-so-subtle locking of the door went unnoticed - they would sleep in that little study they'd found for the purpose. Sleep and wake and find the new morning a little brighter for the presence of the other. If Cullen wasn't a complete fool, which was by no means assured, he would insist on morning prayers together, heads bent, bodies bent close and stealing breath with every word…

Maxwell shook himself. Instead of Cullen's blonde head he was seeing a much darker shade, alongside skin the color of expensive whiskey. And the supplications in his mind weren't exactly appropriate for the Chantry, not that it had ever stopped him before.

Where was Dorian?

Something must have happened. He knew it, in his bones. He hadn't been there, and something had happened. He shouldn't have trusted that stupid elf, with his lingering eyes and angry face. He shouldn't have let Dorian be so persuasive. Maxwell knew better than anyone that the mage would always quit too soon.

"Dorian is still bright," said Cole. "But he doesn't want a wooden duck in his bed anymore."

A smile, then, small but welcome. "And what does he want?"

"That's a secret between friends," said Cole. When Maxwell turned around, the spirit was sitting on the table, legs swinging freely beneath, like a boy perched in an apple tree. "When you see him next, he'll be very old. But he'll still look the same. That's a secret, too."

Cole had used to make more sense than this, from what Maxwell remembered, but two years with only Solas's cryptic Fade monologues couldn't have been good for the boy. But as long as Dorian was alive, Maxwell didn't care if the information came in a confused jumble of words or not.

He should go to bed. Watching wouldn't bring him back, and waiting would only make Maxwell more anxious. Sleep would speed the process and soothe the fear, and if something had happened, Dorian would need him rested and strong.

Maxwell paced in front of the large drawing room window, staring at the street, while the worried door opened again in his mind.

* * *

"The Mortalitasi will never believe this," said Dorian's mouth, completely independent of the rest of him. The utter shock of reviving a body, a truly dead one, into a coherent whole, was beyond even his own standards of glib acceptance. "I knew I was talented, of course, but I've impressed even myself."

Or perhaps his powers of pith could never be overcome.

"But perhaps this is the purview of all Archons? Corpse-raising?" Dorian added. He looked around, wondering if he should take a seat. Was there protocol in these situations? None of his former spirit-imbued corpses had been this chatty.

"Stop talking," said Radonis. "We don't have long. Tevinter is dying."

"I hope that's a metaphor."

"It isn't. Don't you feel it?"

Dorian closed his eyes obediently, but his every nerve was on fire. He felt a thousand feet tall and ten thousand years old. This room alone was overwhelming. Carpet underneath his feet, swishing as he rocked on soft feet. Every current of air in the room a gale. The smell of blood around him, wet copper and metallic, as though he were encased in armor..

"I feel… everything," he said. _What would sex be like, like this?_ he wondered, which was a mistake when memories of Maxwell's rough, fighter's hands on his skin threatened to carry him away completely.

Radonis attempted a snort, which sounded more like a death rattle. "You're much too young for this. The Imperium will get nothing useful out of you for days. But your blasted Lucerni and their slaves have given us so little to work with that you're all we have," he said. "Now focus, Pavus."

He reluctantly opened his eyes and stared at the ambulatory corpse, which tamped down his libido slightly. Radonis had tried to cross his legs, to disastrous results, but his irritated look forestalled any commentary.

"First, the office of Archon is an ancient responsibility, not a place for juvenile nonsense," said Radonis. "A necromancer in its robes is a danger to everyone if he slips. Blood magic and death are a volatile pairing."

"I'm not a blood mage," said Dorian.

"You are now. It goes with the position. Tevinter is a land of magic, Pavus. It's where magic began - true magic, not the weak and pale stuff the elves used. They sipped from chalices, but we pull from roaring streams. Every magister's death feeds the dirt beneath us. The rocks are soaked with their power. And more ancient things than stones sleep underneath, waiting to be used…"

A small stirring at the edge of his consciousness. Hunger and wariness and _need_. Dorian shivered.

"Yes, you feel it. After the southerner's Exalted March, the ancient mages that remained walked the borders of this land. They spilled their blood in secret to keep Tevinter safe. Stronger magic than Circles and walls protect the Imperium. And only one man holds the key to keeping them that way. The Archon. Which is now you, Maker help us all."

Dorian attempted a disarming smile. "No worries on that account. The Maker picked me for this, or so the Divine says."

"The Divine is a fool," said Radonis. "Tolerate him, but don't encourage him. And stop smiling or I'll think you a fool as well. I know that your father wanted you trained as a battlemage. I know you chose necromancy to defy him. You've always like others to fight for you, and you're a contrary sort, but you have to knuckle under now. If you try to pass this responsibility off to another, the borders will fail and the Qunari will finally have their way in."

"The Qunari? What about the Inquisition?" asked Dorian, ignoring that little side journey into his psyche. "And the southern Chantry? Or do you not know about their invasion force?"

"Of course I know about it," said Radonis, successfully rolling his eyes after some effort. "You and Trevelyan will negotiate with them and our troops take on the stubborn ones. The Qunari are the real threat. Don't let them in."

"That's all well and good to say," snapped Dorian, "but what exactly am I to be doing to keep them out?"

"The Senate gave you their blood. The blood of Tevinter, which connects you to all of Tevinter. To all of that history. What do you need to do? Use it. How you do it depends on you," said Radonis. "You feel powerful now. You always will, though it will settle into something more tolerable. I was trained in the ways of spirit control. My commands for them are sharper than most, and they are near undeniable now that I am Archon. Was Archon," he added, a little annoyed.

"So you have a spirit army protecting the humble humans from Qunari. How very stereotypically Tevinter of you," said Dorian. His eyes narrowed. "So I will, what? Raise every dead thing in Tevinter to stand watch? Bring soldiers back to life to fight onward after they've fallen?"

"Those are excellent ideas," said Radonis. "But you may find other ways." He said nothing else, and his tone indicated that was his last word on the subject.

"Why am I just learning about all of this now? Why didn't my father tell me, at the very least, that this was to be his legacy for me?"

"A large portion of Tevinter's strength rests on your shoulders. If you fall, the Imperium almost certainly tumbles around it. If you wish to place a target upon your back for all the world to aim at, you may feel welcome," said Radonis. "Only a handful of magisters know why these rituals are necessary.

"But tell anyone you wish. Though you'll need to file them all inside of these chambers one at a time to tell them. Blood magic, you know. And you'll probably be thinking of assigning Soporati to the Senate, knowing you and your allies. Take care with that plan. The more living magic you gather to you, the stronger the land will be."

Dorian frowned, but Radonis was fading quickly and didn't seem present enough to notice. His energy was dropping, his movements becoming less, and his next words were slurred. "I know you think I don't like you. And I don't. Things come easily to you. Too easily. You flit and dance away from the hard truths. You've never had to strive as the rest of us do. Your problems are largely of your own making."

They were so like his feelings about Maxwell that Dorian had to chuckle darkly even around his indignation.

"Nevertheless," Radonis continued, "it must be you. Necromancy. This conversation is only possible with it. The next steps as well. There is a shadow over us. I thought I would be alive to see it, and I would have been more than equal to its threat. But the Qunari were too clever, using the slaves, and now we need you to do the unthinkable to save us."

"I'm afraid I only do thinkable things," said Dorian, a hard stone settling inside of himself. "If I can't conceive of them, how can they be?"

Radonis didn't hear him. "Listen to Tevinter. Its will is yours. And go to Dumat's shrine. It will tell you what to do."

Dorian knelt beside the graying corpse, feeling the magic flowing out of him too quickly to contain. It was possible he could keep him longer by pouring more power into him, but the more Dorian learned the less he wanted to know. Archon was supposed to be a flattered political position, not a pivot of the Imperium.

But there was one more desperate question. "What is it like? On the other side of Veil?" he asked in a low voice. Where were his parents? Where were all of those dead that he'd known? He was no more capable of holding his tongue than growing wings and flying away.

Radonis's far away eyes focused on him one more time. "It's angry," he said.

The light inside them went away, and Dorian was alone once more.

* * *

Maxwell went to Shayla as the clocks rounded midnight and woke her abruptly. She tried to strike him as she came out of sleep, reflexively, and he blocked it easily and without much interest. "Dorian isn't back," he said. "Show me how to get to the Pavus mansion. Maybe he went there."

To her credit, she didn't argue or try to dissuade him once she got a good look at the stubborn set of his face. She dressed in her black fighter's uniform quickly and silently, he left a notes for his slumbering allies, and they slipped out of the door within fifteen minutes. Cole trailed behind them on quiet feet, wavering in and out of existence. Shayla didn't see him at all.

But they all passed through the streets like ghosts. Even though Maxwell wore his armor and weapon, no one looked at him more than once. No one attacked or seemed ready to defend against him. Granted the ones who would have considered him the greatest threat were being burned on funeral pyres, but most people were more concerned by an armored man in their midst. Particularly one who looked in as good of shape as he did.

Still, it was a blessing not to be delayed, and when they reached the grand gates once more Maxwell practically danced with impatience as Shayla worked the security open. There was little movement as they drew closer to the houesd, but that didn't mean anything. Maybe Dorian was injured. Maybe he was alone and afraid.

Or maybe he and Fenris were hold up in that childhood bedroom, with a picture on the wall that had glowing lyrium lines on its hidden face, and if that was the case then Maxwell would be making good use of his armor tonight.

Cole whispered, "He's waiting," and Maxwell relaxed very slightly.

But when they opened the front doors and stepped inside, Dorian's magnificent figure was not the one waiting for them in the hall. Instead it was an elf. Bald, familiar and very surprised.

Maxwell looked back at Cole. " _That's_ who was waiting for me? I thought it was Dorian."

The spirit looked down and shuffled away while Shayla stared at Maxwell in total confusion. Solas quickly recovered his usual aplomb and smiled. "Greetings, Inquisitor. I did not expect to find you here."

"I could say the same thing about you," said Maxwell. "Where is Dorian?"

"I cannot tell you. You are his keeper, are you not? Sliding in and out of the Fade to rush to his side, like a spirit of love in an old story?"

Maxwell smiled wryly, and Solas matched him.

Shayla bowed politely, and Maxwell turned to study her. "Why didn't you attack him? He could have been here to kill me. He wouldn't have succeeded, of course, but I might have gotten a few bruises at least."

"Fen'Harel has never meant us any harm," she said.

When Maxwell looked to Solas, the elf looked a little embarrassed. "Fen'Harel? Like that old Elvhen god?" asked Maxwell, not bothering to keep the amusement from his face. "When it comes to aliases, you certainly don't think small do you? Very pretentious of you."

"I learned my pretensions from you, Herald of Andraste," said Solas with heavy emphasis.

Maxwell laughed, loud and full-throated, and he had to conceded that the other man had a point. But he sobered as he looked around. "Dorian should be back by now. I don't like that he's missing."

"You're becoming quite the mother hen as you age," said Solas. "Dorian may be a mage from an imperialistic country which delights in crushing that which they do not value, but he has never been defenseless. I'm certain that he lives."

He looked down as Maxwell's mark sparked slightly, then added, "Come. We'll sit in the drawing room and talk as we wait. I would like to examine the anchor more closely, now that we are in a more solid world."

Maxwell sighed but trailed after him obediently. "As you wish, _Fen'Harel_ ," he said, grinning. "You're not going to try to take it from me again, are you? The Dread Wolf is quite a trickster, as I recall from that march through Mythal's temple."

Solas's eyes held sharp amusement when he turned around. "If I were the Dread Wolf, I would certainly not tell you. Wolves never announce their intentions before they strike, Inquisitor."

He chuckled lightly, and Maxwell nodded in concession of a well-struck riposte. But as they sat down and began to discuss the Inquisition and Solas's journeys, Maxwell turned those words over in his mind with vague unease and wondered about this absent ally. Perhaps Dorian would need to save him, this time.


	20. Lunge and Slash

Dorian cleaned up the mess, both in the office and on himself, as best he could using his parents's spells, then made Radonis's body presentable once more. When one brought a corpse to a gathering, one should ensure it wasn't grotesque in any way. Unless it was the sort of party Dorian had stopped attending years ago.

He also left by the door that led to the more public atrium. It was late, based on the silvered light coming through the windows in the distant ceiling. Well-past a reasonable hour, and Dorian's insides were still on fire with sensation. Even doing the most basic magic had left him exhilarated and drained. Before he could give directives to the Magisterium, or control troops, or raise any sort of ancient magical protections across his land, he needed two things: Some sort of food, and Maxwell to tell him, exactly, what to do.

The youngest Trevelyan was an apocalypse of self-confidence, and by now he was almost certainly itching for something to swing his sword at in a terribly heroic fashion in front of an applauding audience, but he never hesitated, and he was never lost. And Dorian needed that side of him, because he'd never felt more lost in his life.

The Archon's staff accepted Radonis's body with a great deal of silent mourning, and Dorian tried his best to pretend that he hadn't just spoken to the man in an unnatural fashion. If they noticed the slashing marks across the former ruler's arms, they said nothing. And he was fortunately spared the uncomfortable task of asking them to continue on as his own staff, doing whatever it is that they always did, by the woman who'd spoken up in front of the Senate. Portia, as she introduced herself, was the very model of efficiency, and she won him over entirely when she produced a large sandwich and a glass of exceedingly expensive brandy.

A slave, or servant he supposed now, gave it to him with a murmured, "From the Wolf," which Dorian fervently hoped meant the food wasn't poisoned in any way.

The clerical staff, it seemed, was willing to stay on given Radonis's wish for his ascension. Portia assured him that the routine tasks of governance were already turning over in the usual style, though she hinted that the issue of the slaves was an uncertain matter. Dorian knew that was a knot that would take more than a night to unravel, but he supposed he could make a start. When he ordered the lives attached to the Magisterium, and the Archon's office in particular, be inventoried and reviewed for release and new compensation contracts, Portia promised him a report the next day.

She also mentioned that the gates of Minrathous were a chaotic nightmare, crushed as they were with high-ranking mages attempting to leave and Fenris's people attempting to enter. The Templars were there to control the situation, in numbers, but Portia managed to convey with only a raise of her eyebrows that this would not be a permanent solution.

"Very well," said Dorian at last. "Close the gates for now. I'll speak to Fenris. He should be able to control his people. Have the Templars tell the mages that any who wish to be considered for seats in the Magisterium must present themselves to this office in person before the end of the week. That will keep them from fleeing like rodents from a ship's hull."

Portia gave a small smile. "Yes, I believe that's true. I've also sent out ravens announcing your new position to the various nations of Thedas, to forestall any rumors of chaos. As you said, your name is well-known. Nevarra has already sent its regards and a list of treaty terms they would like to discuss with you."

"Ah the dear King. Yes, he always did favor me," said Dorian. His forehead creased in puzzlement. "But so quickly? Does the Archon's office use spelled birds?"

"No, Your Eminence. I may have already had the announcments drafted," she said. She nodded to the body laying on a sideboard, candles already springing up around it like a vigil. Their glow was bright and glaring to his oversensitive eyes, and he prayed Radonis was right about the fading of this new well of power. Portia didn't notice as she added wryly, "He usually got what he wanted."

Dorian smiled lightly. "Yes, I know someone like that as well," he said. And he missed him more than he would have believed possible after only a few hours, given the two years they'd spent apart. "But please, call me Dorian. Or, if that's too much of a presumption for a new acquaintance, Pavus will work just as well."

"Just Pavus?"

"I called him Radonis," said Dorian easily. "I despise titles. It makes me think of all of those hours of passing around introduction cards in drawing room and trying to determine who'd won, like a very dull game of Wicked Grace."

When she nodded, he bowed slightly. "Thank you, Portia. And now, given the lateness of the hour and the new fullness of my belly, I believe I'll return to my bed and see what can be done tomorrow. You may all do the same. I'm sure your families are worried."

"We live here," said Portia. "No families. The Archon preferred us to remain close and unencumbered."

When Dorian stared at her, she laughed slightly. "By our choice. If we desired another life, he found us a good situation. It was not a new kind of slavery," she said. "But for many of us, this is our calling. Serving our country in whatever way we can. Thank you for allowing us to continue on."

"I should be thanking you, my lady," said Dorian in his grandest voice. He reached out to take her unresisting hand, kissing it with a flourish, and she flushed slightly. No wonder, if she never left the place except to deliver memos or something equally dreary. He made a mental note not to let Maxwell anywhere near this place, or they'd be drowning in adolescent crushes. "Now, if you wouldn't mind pointing me to the exit? I believe my retinue will be waiting."

* * *

Fenris was indeed waiting, in the exact same pose against the wall that he'd held during the entire Magisterial debate. When Dorian cocked an eyebrow at him, Fenris shrugged. "Danarius liked his things to be where he left them."

"I'm not Danarius," said Dorian. "'And you're not my thing, thank the Maker. Can we please exchange barbs as we walk? I'm exhausted, and I have all of _this_ to review by the morning." He waved a sheaf of papers around, briefings courtesy of Portia. "Being Archon is, thus far, a bore."

Beyond a little corpse-raising, anyway.

"I'm sorry that the liberation of my people is such a monotonous task for you," said Fenris with a hint of a growl.

Dorian stalked past him through the hall into the street and struck out for the slaver's district. The stones under his feet crackled with Fade energy, with noise, with everything,. The moon above him was bright and intoxicating, perfect for a stroll in the night air, but now that he was done playacting Dorian felt edgy. Dangerous. Just as he had at so many of those little Inquisition parties where he'd been poked and prodded like some exotic exhibit past all endurance. Something inside of him was about to snap, and the worst part was, he had no idea what it was.

Maxwell would be at the house. He would fix this. Whatever it was that needed to be fixed.

"Pavus," called out a furious voice behind him, but he didn't turn around. Fenris was a bully and a murderer and _not_ what he needed to be around while his magic was begging to slip its leash.

But when the elf grabbed his arm in another rough hold, Dorian gasped against his will. The lyrium on Fenris's skin flared and wavered against his own like an bolt of lightning. Tevinter magic. Now a part of him, irrevocably, which meant Fenris was his.

The thread inside of him frayed just that hint more.

He tried to pull away, but Fenris backed him into a nearby wall, hands bruising around his arms. "Don't walk away from me. Your title impresses me not a wit, and if you expect politics to stay my hand you've learned nothing of me."

"Release me," said Dorian.

"I could rip your heart out," said Fenris conversationally, only that low rumbling growl beneath his words betraying him. "I've done it before. It's simple, really, with a strong enough will. And my will is iron." When his tattoos glowed, they cast a strange light over the whiteness of his teeth, giving him a newly feral look. "They claim you deal in life past death, Pavus, but I doubt even you could will yourself to return when your heart beats in my hand."

Maker's breath, what if he really could? Had he volunteered himself into immortality? A horrifying thought.

And a question for another time, as he was viciously close to making this a true test of wills, one that would be fought to the death. Fenris's eyes were no less deadly. And they were green, damn him. Not the _right_ green, not the green Dorian wanted, but he was aflame and the elf was so very close. His harsh breath came hot and fast across Dorian's face, and he felt his body responding in an incredibly inappropriate way.

Maxwell was going to murder him, if Fenris didn't tear his organs out first.

"And I could kill you," said Dorian desperately. "Do you understand me, you idiot? I could kill you, and I wouldn't even enjoy it. Get away from me!"

Fenris's hands tightened on his biceps, and Dorian kicked back reflexively with his mind, twisting the lyrium that was still branding him into a new shape. Fenris yelped and drew back a long step, staring at him murderously, before flashing a white-hot glow around them both.

The Fade shrieked in the distance, but what need did he have of the Fade when the ground poured magic back into him, strong and hot and ready to be used? Dorian held up a shaking hand and summoned a curl of fire into his palm.

The heat of the fireball nearly took off his eyebrows.

Fenris changed back to his normal ashy tan color instantly, a wary look on his face. "What's the matter with you? How are you doing that?"

"I don't know," said Dorian, partly because of the veil of secrecy and partly because it was true. "I need to see Maxwell. He knows strange magic. He'll understand this."

The last was a bald-faced lie, but the elf wouldn't know any better.

But Fenris shook his head. "No. We're going to the Pavus estate first."

"That is absolutely out of the question."

"We can't go back to the base," said Fenris, surprisingly reasonably for a man who'd been a handspan away from maiming him only a minute before. "People will be watching our path. The opposed magisters. Your staff. It's not safe for our allies."

"I don't care. Maxwell is the only ally that matters at this particular juncture."

The elf's eyes flickered down to the front of Dorian's well-cut trousers, and his lip curled. "Yes, I see," he said in dry tones that had Dorian's face blazing. "But it doesn't matter. Besides, there's someone at the Pavus estate that may be helpful with whatever happened to you."

When Dorian didn't move back the way they'd come, Fenris crossed his arms. "I will kill you if you resist. It wasn't an idle boast," he said. He sighed. "But I will also send for Trevelyan if it will soothe your infernal stubbornness."

Dorian rolled his eyes and moved irritably towards the manse district. "I want a new bodyguard."

A low chuckle floated through the night. "We all want so many things, don't we?" said Fenris. A hesitation, then. "Did you mean what you said about the Magisterium? You'd appoint me to it?"

"It seems indicated, doesn't it? After all, you're a constantly homicidal man with a taste for torture and a love of sweeping dramatics and bloodsports. You'll be a seamless addition to their ranks, magic or no."

"Very strange," muttered Fenris to himself, and they said nothing else for the rest of their walk.

* * *

Maxwell was dozing in the most uncomfortable chair he'd ever had the displeasure of resting in when the mansion's doors opened. In seconds he was awake, stepping into the other room with a predatory stride that might have surprised anyone who'd only seen him in the ballroom. After one fast glance at Dorian to make sure he was upright on his own power and not bleeding, he focused on Fenris. "Where have you been?"

He hadn't drawn his sword, entirely, but he had his hand on it in a way that implied it was his next option.

Fenris sighed heavily. "I would have thought after knowing this one," he said, gesturing to Dorian, "you would know how difficult it is to get mages to shut up. They govern at the speed of turtles."

That was true enough that Maxwell almost laughed, though Dorian was being uncharacteristically quiet now. He looked at his lover and narrowed his eyes. Dorian's hair was unkempt, by his standards, his eyes slightly glassy, and his breath was coming more quickly than its usual slow and impudent rhythm. There was a bruise on his upper arm, the kind that came from being pressed against a wall, hard and fast. And the tension in his shoulders was the sort that Maxwell knew well, thanks to all of those dreams in the dark recesses of the night.

Dorian always murmured sex, but now he was practically screaming it.

"Is that what they're calling it now? Governing?" snarled Maxwell, and there was nothing implied about the fighting stance he dropped into as he turned back to Fenris. Maker help him, if this elf had known even a taste of what it was to feel Dorian falling apart, he would cut him to ribbons. Tevinter be damned. They were in _love_.

The dismissive, insolent shake of Fenris's head pushed him towards a different kind of violence, and when the other man smiled coldly, Maxwell took another step towards them. "He'd look much more satisfied if we'd fucked, Inquisitor," said Fenris. "Much, much more."

"Leto!" said Shayla disapprovingly, and Maxwell had the pleasure of watching Fenris's cheeks turn ruddy as he looked away.

"I loathe that armor," said Dorian, as though they'd all been discussing the weather. His eyes were roving over Maxwell with a sharpness he usually reserved for the most pompous of Skyhold visitors, and Maxwell's aggression fell away underneath the critical gaze.

"It's lucky."

"It's hideous," said Dorian. His mouth smiled, but it wasn't amused. "You should take it off. Immediately."

Maxwell's pulse quickened, even as Shayla rapped out a horrified, "Dorian!" with twice the censure she'd given her brother.

But Dorian's cheeks didn't color. He didn't even seem to hear her. He walked towards Maxwell like a cat, a string of unbroken movements that were alarmingly, beautifully sensuous. Maker's breath, the man was even swaying his hips like a courtesan. Maxwell didn't even attempt to hide his blatant appreciation of each peak of that pendulum. After all, those movements were all for him.

And when Dorian was finally close enough, Maxwell pulled the mage against him, heedless of the painful, veridium metal in their path, and kissed the life out of him. Dorian melted, then hardened against his mouth, and while it was more difficult to make out in full plate than the storybooks would make it seem, Maxwell gave it his level best.

They finally broke apart, gasping, and Dorian smiled up at him with a faux innocence that had Maxwell biting back a groan. He narrowed his eyes to cover his wayward lust. "I was worried about you, you idiot. You've been ages."

"I'm here now," said Dorian. "And you're being quite the troublemaker in my house." He stood up on his tiptoes and whispered, light as a feather, "Take me to bed, Maxwell Trevelyan."

Sweet Maker, yes. "Anytime," he said, low and secret, and Dorian hummed approvingly. They were stumbling towards the stairs before Maxwell could get his bearings, and he only half-spun around when Solas coughed loudly and said something about discussing business.

"We'll talk later," said Maxwell. Dorian's ass was directly at eye level, and that was much, much more important than some bald elf that wanted to talk politics.

"As you wish, Inquisitor," said the elf's clearly disapproving voice, and Maxwell waved jauntily behind him as they disappeared into the dark upper hallway.

* * *

"Armor. Off," said Dorian when they were finally in his room. He lit a few candles, taking great care to release only a wisp of power, then glided to the far wall to wait for his instructions to be obeyed. Which they were, with alacrity. Despite the unprecedented level of his arousal, he almost laughed when Maxwell stripped his plate away like a teenage boy being offered a chance to lose his virginity. It was very gratifying to know that those broad shoulders and muscled arms could still be reduced to such desperate straits.

At least he wasn't the only one.

But there would be no tears this time. No weakness, no gauche emotional needs. He loved Maxwell, but a man with a body like that wasn't built for only love.

"You look delicious," he said when the southern man was down to the thin cotton shirt and trousers he wore beneath his gear. "Come here."

"Bossy tonight, aren't you?" asked Maxwell, grin flashing white in the low light. "Give a man a country and he'll want the world."

"I'll settle for you," said Dorian, seductive and ready, and Maxwell moved towards him slowly. "Besides, you don't know that I won the vote."

"Of course you did." Maxwell didn't stop at a handspan away but covered him, completely and utterly, as they pressed against the wall. "I told you I would make you Archon."

When Dorian snorted, a little breathlessly given the deliberate way Maxwell's hand was snaking beneath his shirt, the other man dipped his head until his lips brushed Dorian's ear. "You helped, of course. So how is the most gorgeous ruler this country has ever known doing tonight?"

Not well. Instead of rough and greedy, like the kiss in the entry, Maxwell was stroking the skin of his stomach gently, other hand running up his arm so lightly it was barely there. He was also nipping and licking at that perfect spot behind his ear, and all in all he was being an enormous tease. Dorian's oversensitive skin heated and cooled in turns, and he groaned softly as a shiver of electricity fluttered over him.

Maxwell leaned back, face surprised, though his hands never stopped roaming. "So responsive," he murmured, pleased. "I usually have to work much harder for that kind of reaction. " His hips moved forward, seeking contact, and he smiled when he met the evidence of Dorian's total loss of control. "My my. What exactly do they do at these elections, _amatus_?"

That was a conversation for after the bed, not that Dorian was capable of any kind of coherent speech anyway. "Please," he whispered, tilting his head back and begging for a kiss with his eyes.

"Andraste's mercy, look at you," breathed Maxwell before leaning down and capturing Dorian's mouth with gentle heat. Tongue pressed to tongue, and Dorian was very grateful for the wall propping him up. This was the rhythm of a dance, not war, and he lost himself in the sensations. He didn't dare move his hips, knowing that he was in great danger of rutting against the man right there against the wall, but he did twist his fingers into Maxwell's hair in the way that always made him growl.

Then one of Maxwell's hands brushed against the tender flesh of Dorian's neck with gentle fingers, and he nearly exploded right there. Maxwell swallowed his gasp with a dark chuckle, and he pulled back to whisper against his lips. "Liked that, did you? You're going to be the death of me, Dorian, I swear it. But what a glorious way to die."

Dorian could only whimper as Maxwell continued to caress his neck and kiss him with feather-light touches in between sparking sentences. Dorian's stomach was twisted and heavy, full of a gathering need that was bigger than Minrathous. Bigger than the whole damn world, and the ground below him seemed to shift and waver as he fought to stay tethered to himself. Maxwell's voice was such a gentle rumble against him, that low baritone that promised unending pleasure. Did he know the power he carried in that voice?

When he shook a little too much at one delicate expression of desire, he felt Maxwell leash himself and pull back. "What did that elf do to you?" he asked, his other hand tracing a delicate pattern on Dorian's bicep. "You have a demon of a bruise."

Another lingering kiss, then a second, and Dorian gathered himself with effort. "I left him behind. He was irritated. He displayed it through brutish physicality." Maxwell growled in anger, and Dorian blinked up into those green eyes. "Don't be jealous. You're still my very favorite brute."

"I'm not jealous," said Maxwell grumpily. "I will cut his hand off, though."

"And will we be required to cheer you at the end of the display?"

"It would be nice. So what did you do after he threw you against a wall?"

"I threatened to kill him, then demanded to see you."

Maxwell smiled, brilliant and proud. "I changed my mind again. I love it when you're sassy."

His next kiss was sweet and full, and Dorian felt himself gathered inside the warmth of a pair of strong arms before he could react. It was lovely, of course, a perfect moment from a man Dorian would have sworn had not a romantic bone in his body, but it was also very much not what he was in the mood for tonight.

Dorian tried to convey this with a gentle roll of his hips and a less-than-gentle tug at the cloth shirt covering Maxwell's heat, but the stubborn ass wouldn't take the hint. Eventually he pulled away from the mouth that absolutely refused to ravish him and glared. "This isn't what I want."

"Those noises you were making earlier say otherwise," said Maxwell. His brow was dark and petulant. "I can leave."

Maker's testes, the Inquisitor was practically pouting over him. It was a tribute to the Trevelyans' strong breeding that it didn't diminish his attractions in the least. "That would be even less satisfactory," said Dorian, raking his fingers over the still-covered chest in front of him. "Now stop mincing and get down to business."

The green of his eyes changed from emerald to the darkening of a storm. "I'm making love to you. It's supposed to be sweet. Not… vulgar."

"Bless your heart, you really do have no idea about any of this, do you?" murmured Dorian, rising up on his toes to kiss the underside of Maxwell's jaw. "Delightful, if unexpected. Maxwell," he added, smiling when he felt the other man shudder, "I would like you to be extremely vulgar this evening. Uncouth, crude, obscene, tawdry…"

Each word was punctuated with another open-mouthed kiss along that well-groomed beard, and when he finished with a bite to the neck hard enough to leave a bruise, Maxwell finally snapped. He pinned Dorian's wandering hands above him and looked down with a much more gratifyingly possessive look. "Does that mean you don't love me?"

"I love you more than the heavens, my insecure hero," said Dorian, completely lost in the moment. "And rough sex tonight will win my heart for all time."

"Prove it," said Maxwell, but he was grinning wickedly. "Tell me more things you want me to be."

Instead of answering, Dorian waved his hand at the remaining picture on the wall and changed it to reflect the rhythms of his mind. Maxwell, extremely naked and extremely large, kneeling over someone just out of frame and staring out at the room in challenge. His eyes piercing and wanting and having. His face hard and demanding and gorgeous. His body vibrant and colorful and _real_. It wasn't difficult to create, considering he'd been the murmur at the back of Dorian's mind ever since the Magisterium. This strange new power would fade under Maxwell's own dominance, and Dorian needed it. He needed him.

Maxwell had turned at the gesture and stood, slack-jawed, staring at the new image. "Where did that other guy go?" he asked, releasing Dorian to walk over and prod at his naked form. "When did you change it?"

Dorian undressed himself quietly, moving to the bed and hoping he got this right. Need without vulnerability. Desire without softness. Love without desperation. An attitude that would keep Maxwell from moving on again. An attitude that would plant something true. Real love, and not this half-understood facsimile that Maxwell was trying to create.

"Is this what I look like to you?" asked Maxwell wonderingly, tracing a finger over the chiseled face. He didn't turn around as Dorian crawled into bed. "Maker, I look incredible. Josephine's been wanting me to get portraits done. She should hire you."

He seemed to notice the silence in the room and spun around with a hint of panic. It vanished when his eyes lit on Dorian, naked and spread decadently across the bed. So many things were uncertain now, inside and out, and Dorian never felt quite so fumbling as he did when the Inquisitor was near, but he would be dead before he forgot how to create an alluring, irresistible picture with his body.

"I'm sorry, were you saying something?" he asked innocently, and Maxwell laughed.

"Nothing at all important, love," he answered, stripping off his own shirt as he strode across the room. It was half-striptease, half-expediency, and he even made a quick stoop at his belongings into a kind of battlefield dance. When he rose, somehow he'd lost his pants, and Dorian would have to learn that trick from him as soon as blood was moving in a more scholarly direction.

Maxwell held up a small bottle with a grin. "I'll never travel without it again."

"Or without me, I hope."

"That goes without saying." Maxwell clambered into bed, heavy and big and pressing, and he kissed Dorian into the mattress. There was no warm-up this time, nothing sweet at all, and Dorian opened himself up to all of it with a low moan. He fisted a hand in the sheets when Maxwell's tongue swept into his mouth without warning, and the other gripped the pale shoulder above him in a vise grip as his hips bucked up, searching.

"I won't be able to stop," said Maxwell quietly. One last reassurance.

Dorian took the bottle he'd laid on the bed and unstoppered it with a practiced thumb before holding it out as offering. "Then don't."

"Shit," said Maxwell, then grabbed the bottle and kissed him again.

Their bodies ground together in controlled need as they explored, and when Maxwell went wandering Dorian bit his lips against moans that still escaped with distressing regularity. He said no other words, but he didn't need to. Maxwell was the master here, the confident man in the picture who knew exactly what to do, and though he never touched Dorian's cock he had it hard and aching without much trouble at all. The calluses on his palms alone were enough to bring a man to his knees. It seemed like hours as they rutted and pushed and kneaded flesh between urgent hands.

When a practiced, slick finger finally pressed at his entrance, Dorian arched off of the bed so quickly he might well have been electrocuted.

"Mmm. You want this too, don't you?"

Dorian had never wanted anything else. Never in the whole of his life had he known what it was to truly want, until this moment, when Maxwell was kneeling between his legs, watching him, touching him, kissing the inside of his thigh with teeth and tongue.

He could only answer with a strangled noise in his throat.

"So eloquent," said Maxwell softly, pushing his way inside with a non-too-gentle hand.

One finger, then more, and Dorian was stretching and panting, but it wasn't enough. Maxwell kept away from the true center of his pleasure, which was probably wise, but Dorian was in no mood for wisdom. "More," he begged.

"Are you sure you can take more?" asked Maxwell. "You're a mess already. Practically gone, my love. Should I stop?"

Dorian shook his head wildly.

"Should I touch you?"

Dorian nodded, whimpering.

"Maker I love it when you're like this," sad Maxwell, reaching up to graze Dorian's cock with a light stroke as he pressed another finger in, and nothing had ever felt so good. "You're almost ready."

A few more endless minutes passed, Maxwell playing his body like it was an instrument he'd mastered long ago, and then his fingers were gone. Despite the emptiness, Dorian looked up at him with an expression he hoped wasn't too pleading.

Or maybe pleading was okay, when Maxwell rose up in front of him with a lovely grin, his own cock heavy and slicked against his thigh. "You're so ruined. You look like sex on a plate. Want me?"

"Always," said Dorian, canting his hips up to rub against what he truly wanted. " _Amatus._ "

"Yes," breathed Maxwell, a hiss of victory that was the sexiest sound Dorian had ever heard.

He pressed his cock past that eager ring of muscle, and Dorian went far, far away. There was only Maxwell filling him, pushing aside the worry and the fear and the responsibility and giving him only pleasure. The tight, beautiful feeling of being filled, the harsh breaths between his lover's praises, the jolting of his own cock on his stomach as he drew his legs up to give Maxwell that perfect, lovely angle that would have him coming without being touched at all.

Their cries were more animal than human as they tried to get closer, tried to feel more, tried to be everything and anything all at the same time.

And as Maxwell began to break down into a jagged, rougher need, as Dorian's own explosion crept up behind his eyes, the ground tilted beneath him again. He reached out with his magic to steady it, like a teenager past control, and something _moved_ beneath the pressure of his mind. Something big and dangerous and waiting. The small, rational part of his mind screamed at him to get away, to crawl back into himself and hide.

But he couldn't stop. He would never be able to stop, and so his magic continued to flow as he drove towards a higher and a higher peak. "Maxwell," he gasped, and that was all it took to break them. His lover's hand exploded in green fire as he emptied himself inside of him, slicing a thin scratch across the Veil around them as he screamed. Dorian bucked and twisted through his own orgasm, wondering if the Veil would open, wondering if a demon would come, wondering if anything would be equal to this man he loved.

When they came back from wherever they'd gone, the room looked no different, the world felt the same, and Maxwell was looking down on him with irritated affection. He reached out and repaired the Veil with exhausted energy. "Andraste's ashes, I was right. You really will be the death of me."

Solas burst into the bedroom at just that moment. "What did you do?" he demanded irritably, and Dorian gripped Maxwell tightly as they shook with laughter, sated and free.


	21. Flashpoint

"Solas! Welcome to my home. Tell me, when did you arrive?" said Dorian as he rose up on his elbow, the very picture of a delighted and formal host from the neck up.

Or perhaps not. Maxwell reached up to brush away a spot of decidedly unformal evidence of pleasure from the place under his jaw, and Dorian gave him a quick grin before turning back to the elf with a gently raised eyebrow.

"Not recently. I was in the entry, before. When you arrived back," said Solas.

"Were you?" said Dorian in surprised tones that were just a hint overdone. "I must have been drifting. Forgive my appalling manners. I hope you rooted about for refreshments while Maxwell and I concluded our urgent business."

Maxwell, who, if he said so himself, had been doing a masterful job of controlling his amusement, lost his grip once more and giggled like a Chantry initiate into Dorian's sculpted shoulder. And it was giggling of a sort he hadn't done even when he _had_ been a Chantry initiate. But there was something so joyful in this moment, in the way Dorian's eyes were lit with laughter behind his noble mask and Solas's outraged schoolmarm pose and the fact that Maxwell hadn't yet disengaged himself from the ass that had been even better than he'd remembered.

He did so as Solas hissed in annoyance. Dorian coughed once to cover a laugh and a groan before saying with careful concern, "Is there something the matter?"

"There was an outpouring of magic in this room," said Solas, his voice dripping with ice. "The world destabilized. I was concerned."

"Ah, yes. Well, not that I would ever brag, of course - terribly gauche, particularly when one is as obviously handsome, erudite and cultured as myself - but I must say I _am_ rather magical. It must have been all of that pesky talent escaping again," said Dorian. "Maxwell, be a dear and fetch us some towels. And possibly our pants, if you have enough hands."

Maxwell was dangerously close to passing out with laughter, even more so when he got a good look at Solas determinedly staring at the wall above their heads. He thought he saw Fenris lurking in the hall behind him as well, his white hair swinging as he took quick little peeks at the tableau, so Maxwell ran a possessive hand over Dorian's still-slick chest before he leaned down to peck him lightly on the lips.

"Only because you look so satisfied," he said loudly. "Someone must have really tired you out."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "Men. Please tell me you aren't going to pee on me or something equally barbaric."

Maxwell made a face. "Ugh. Never say that again."

"If you're going to behave like a dog in heat in front of our distinguished guest, it's only fair you're treated like one. Brute."

"You were the one who seduced me first. Harlot."

Dorian smirked. "Ruffian."

"Libertine," murmured Maxwell, already leaning down for another kiss. Round two was almost certainly not in the cards, and not only because they had an audience, but he was never one to miss an opportunity for a little foreplay. Afterplay. Whatever this was.

Love had some good things going for it after all, he decided when Dorian fell back into the pillow and sighed happily into his mouth.

Even Solas's pointed, "Towels and pants, Inquisitor?" couldn't bring him down totally. But in deference to the fact that he was being obnoxiously soppy, Maxwell rolled away with a minimum of protest and started digging through the room's drawers.

"What happened?" asked Solas.

Maxwell didn't turn around as he said, "Well, it started on the wall over there, and then he got terribly snippy before we worked it out on the bed…"

"Maxwell, please! My delicate reputation!" said Dorian, likely fluttering a hand in front of his face like an Orlesian noble. In more normal ones, he added, "It was a small loss of control, that's all. Maxwell was… overly stimulated. But he repaired the damage."

"Not that," said Solas. "The other magic. Below us. What did you do?"

"You felt that?" asked Dorian curiously. "Interesting. What was it like?"

"Familiar," said Solas. "I felt something like it long ago, when I walked an ancient memory in the Fade. From the time of the first Exalted March."

Maxwell finally located towels and began wiping himself down. He tossed an overly fluffy one to Dorian, who glared at him when it hit him in the face. Maxwell grinned back before turning to Solas. "You realize you explain yourself that way too often to be believable, right?" he asked. He dropped his voice into a studious monotone. "'I once found an artifact exactly and identically like this as I wandered the world of dreams.' You can admit you read books to figure this stuff out, you know."

Solas ignored him. "Fenris says you were made Archon, and that it took a surprisingly long time for you to emerge." He held out a hand suddenly, and a pulse of energy wrapped around Dorian's body.

"Hey!" said Maxwell when Dorian yelped. He dropped the towel and stepped forward. "That's my boyfriend you're combing with weird magic."

"It didn't hurt," said Dorian, but he sounded a bit shaken. "Was that elven? Some kind of Rift magic?"

Solas shrugged, then tilted his head to the side. "What did the blood magic do to you?"

 _Blood magic?_ thought Maxwell, but he bit the words away from his lips. Instead, he slid back onto the bed and touched Dorian's shoulder gently, looking deeply into his eyes when he turned. He didn't know what he was looking for, exactly, but this was what Dorian had done for him at the party, and he'd be damned if he would be outshone in the caretaking role.

The blend of indulgence and softness in Dorian's eyes said that he knew what Maxwell was doing. "Not that type, _amatus_ ," he said. "I'm quite myself. Mostly. Now that I'm here. But I'm afraid I can't tell you what it did."

As if that assurance meant anything. Dorian could be inhabited by some demon, and Maxwell would never know. He had been awfully amorous tonight, beyond his usual careful debauchery. Hopefully Cullen could help. If someone or something had taken away his sweet, pithy, lovely mage, Maxwell was going to kill them. Extremely slowly.

He frowned, then sighed when Dorian patted his cheek and made a slight pleading moue. Another place to trust where he doubted. Love was very demanding.

"Try to tell us," urged Solas, apparently uninterested in all of it.

Dorian turned back to the elf and opened his mouth, then closed it and frowned. He seemed to think furiously to himself, then opened his mouth once more. Finally he shook his head, but his eyes were sparkling. "Fascinating. Like a word on the tip of one's tongue that can't quite be recalled, only it's entire sentences. Ideas. Damnably clever of them," he said to himself. He looked back at Solas. "You're sadly out of luck."

"Spells of that nature have a place where they're released," said Solas. "It's their way. You'll take us there in the morning and explain this new power. We should be safe until then, and it could be useful."

Maxwell was on the cusp of agreeing when Dorian crossed his arms. "I don't recall inviting you into this little circle of confidantes," he said. "And you already seem to know far too much about all of this, so you'll forgive me if I politely decline."

Fenris swung into the room then, and Dorian finally flushed and moved to cover himself before falling back into casual insolence. Maxwell narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip around his shoulder, making sure the mage was leaning into him as Fenris stared coolly at them both. "Fen'Harel is my ally," he said. "Which makes him yours. His inclusion is a condition of my aid."

"He has so many conditions I might have just as well made him Archon," muttered Dorian, too quietly for anyone for Maxwell to hear. "Very well. Tomorrow, at the Magisterium. Bring the rest of the Inquisitorial brood. Now, I need to read a truly staggering number of papers and sleep, not necessarily in that order."

The elves nodded, one more politely than the other, and filed out. Fenris took a last look at the bed as he closed the door, one that made Maxwell's blood boil. He released Dorian and flopped over on his back with a huff. "Do you want me to go, too?"

"By no means," said Dorian, scooting down the bed and throwing a blanket over them both before curling up into Maxwell's side. "Who knows what may become of me if you leave? Besides, Fenris may attempt to spirit you away now that he's seen the truly glorious half of this pairing."

"You don't have to patronize me," grumbled Maxwell. "I know who he was looking at." And while Dorian certainly deserved any admiration he got, it was a little disconcerting to be so easily outshone by someone. Even Bull, exotic as he was, had never pulled focus from the Inquisitor.

"He threatened to kill me tonight. Very seriously. I don't think lust is at the forefront of his mind with either of us," said Dorian, laughing. Maxwell pressed his lips together when Dorian rolled up to kiss him, and the mage sat up. "Are you really upset?"

"No," said Maxwell.

Dorian leveled him with a look.

Maxwell sighed. "Fine. A little," he said. "I don't like that you went without me. I don't like that you're apparently under the sway of some kind of Tevinter blood magic, and I'm just supposed to accept that you're fine. I don't like that Solas thinks you're doing some kind of magic he's only read about in ancient books. And I don't like the way that stupid, attractive elf follows you around and protects you and throws you against walls when that's supposed to be _me._ " He turned his face away, though he tightened the grip of his hand on Dorian's arm. "I don't want to lose you."

In body or mind. In affection or friendship. In death or possession. In any way. He couldn't lose Dorian.

Sweet Maker, he sounded like one of Varric's lovelorn protagonists. He grimaced and looked back at the mage, who seemed a little alarmed at his mawkishness. "Sorry, it's been a long day."

"An apology? Now I really am worried," said Dorian lightly.

"Don't be mean to me," said Maxwell. He snuggled under the blanket with as much pique as he could manage with the exhaustion overtaking him. He wound an arm around Dorian's sculpted torso and tried not to grip too tightly. They both smelled like sex, and, perversely, that helped center him once more.

"As you wish. But first I must say - you can't lose me. I've been thoroughly won," said Dorian. He waved his hand over them and the lit candles snuffed out quicker than Maxwell would have believed possible. "The only question that remains is whether or not you'll consider the prize worth it, in the end."

* * *

"Do not flirt with the staff," muttered Dorian as they strode through the Magisterium. Maxwell didn't acknowledge him, staring at the architecture like some country tourist, though a faint smile played around his lips. They'd woken each other with hungry kisses, though they disagreed about which one had done the waking, and followed it with a very physical debate where both of them had won satisfactorily. Whatever vulnerability had overtaken them both in the past was lost in mutual desire, and the sex was all the better for it.

As soon as they'd left the bedroom, however, Maxwell had reverted fully to Savior of the Known Universe. Though now he was playing gormless idiot, much to his own amusement.

Fenris snorted behind them. "He seems incapable of helping himself," he said. "You're both worse than a Rivaini pirate, and I'm in a position to know."

Maxwell finally broke his act as he turned around to waggle his fingers coquettishly at the elf. "You're just upset because you lost."

The two warriors had worked out in the Pavus courtyard after breakfast while Dorian read his reports, a friendly match with more bared teeth and bared flesh than most sparring sessions. It had been close-fought, an impressive display of skills and style, though it was obvious that Fenris was unused to fighting against a person who wasn't affected by his nullification of magic. Which was why he'd been the one to yield, sweating and heaving for breath under the dewy morning light, while Maxwell posed triumphantly.

Needless to say, Dorian's reports were still mostly unread.

"So if you bested Fenris, and Cullen bested you, does that make him the most talented of the group?" asked Cassandra, and Dorian looked at her in surprise. She smiled secretly, and he realized this was her version of a joke.

"You win nearly every bout between us," said Cullen, distracted from his conversation with Solas and Shayla.

"I do not count," she said firmly. "I am a woman, and thus by definition will always win."

Sera whooped while Varric groaned, and Dorian's new staff turned to look at them in mild panic as they entered the atrium. Radonis had likely never brought anyone who spoke above a whisper into these hallowed halls. And, if he had, they wouldn't have scattered like cats throughout the room over his strenuous protests.

"Go into my office -" he began, then sighed as he promptly lost track of everyone. Cullen and Cassandra headed straight for the Templar guard, Sera made a beeline for a nearby servant, Fenris and Shayla hot on her heels, Varric located his financial clerk with terrifying accuracy, and Cole and Solas actually did move towards his office, where they were barred by another guard. Maxwell immediately found a blushing pair of clerks, a man with soft hands and a woman with lightly curling hair, and was introducing himself with a brilliant smile before they could find their voices.

The Inquisition soldiers, as requested, set up a secondary guard in the room. At least Eustace could be trusted to do what he wanted.

Portia sidled up to him a little uncertainly, and he sighed in her direction. "I'll be the worst Archon in this country's history. I can't even control my allies."

"Their initiative merely shows your allies' strength," she said, then smiled as he laughed appreciatively. "Your office is set up as you requested. Food and privacy will be yours. Heirs have begun to present themselves for appointment, and Magister Tilani will weed them out per your specifications. She identified several positions where replacement will be necessary. We also received the list of your father's businessmen, the Alexius steward, and the Pavus retainers who may still remain alive, and we will make sure that things run as expected while you settle in. And the Alexius staff will be moved to the Pavus estate."

Dorian stared at her for a brief moment, then gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. "You, my dear, are a treasure beyond imagining. Give yourself a raise, on my authority."

The clerk turned a bright shade of red and muttered a thank you, and Maxwell's hands slid around his waist. "Now who's flirting?" he asked, but his voice was light and teasing. "Archon Pavus is going to get a terrible reputation this way. Hello. Maxwell Trevelyan, Inquisitor, hero, and celebrated lover of the rich and powerful. You remind me of my own chief organizer, beautiful and competent. Nice to meet you."

Maxwell extended a hand while keeping the other in place, very foreign and leering, and Portia shook it, even redder than before. Dorian closed his eyes. "This is a nightmare."

"When you ally with the Inquisition, that's what you get," said Varric. The dwarf held a scroll with the markings of trade agreements, and his face showed absolutely no shame about it. "So, do you want Cassandra to duel your guards or are you going to let us into your office?"

* * *

They all fell on the food like animals as various people picked up various reports and missives. Cullen and Cassandra determined where the Inquisition and Chantry forces were - while brushing their hands together under the table, Dorian noticed - and Maxwell frowned at a message from Josephine, asking Dorian urgently if the Inquisitor was still alive.

But Solas had no patience, and before he was ready, Dorian was telling them what he could about the election, the true role of Archon, and the new power inside of him that he had less than no idea how to control. He left out the part about the hungry presence that seemed to appear at his most distraught moments, but when he told them about what had happened with Radonis, Maxwell leaned forward, all concern.

"You did that?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," said Dorian, only slightly lying. "Fear of magic has never been one of my flaws."

Cullen shifted uncomfortably. "Blood magic…"

Dorian winced at the fear he saw on the Commander's face. Another half-formed friendship, fallen away. "It isn't what you think," he said gently. "I have no intention of becoming a blood mage. For one, I look horrifying in red. For another, I have no interest in it. Radonis offered himself willingly, and the control was not in my hands. But it is now. The magic they put on me is a key, and it only turns one lock. The lock of Tevinter's defense. I won't try to force it into another."

The other man didn't look convinced. "I've heard that before. They always claim it will be only for what's needed."

Cassandra rubbed his shoulder, and Cullen looked at her steady face before sighing. "You should hate blood magic even more than I do."

"I hate all that which harms," she said. "But the Seekers have shown me that harm can come from many directions and aid from the unlikeliest of places. I sense no demon inside of Dorian, and he has always been our ally. He has killed no one, done no wrong, and even now he speaks instead of fights. We cannot condemn a man for honesty when he is so well known to us."

"Thank you," said Dorian.

"But if you show signs of corruption, I will run you through myself," said Cassandra, looking at him with that refreshing bluntness. "Have no doubt on that score."

He shrugged, and she settled back. Maxwell looked slightly more heartened now that Cassandra had pronounced him demon-free, and he clapped his hands. "So, we go to the border where Leliana and Vivienne are going to arrive, we invite the Imperium's soldiers, raise up whatever these defenses are - hopefully not an army of undead - and we parlay in the standstill. I'm alive, Leliana falls back, Vivienne crumbles, everything is forgiven, and we all live happily ever after."

As one, the room rolled their eyes. "That is… broadly correct," said Cassandra. "Though it lacks nuance."

Solas stood. "There is no guarantee that Dorian will be able to use his power effectively," he said. "These are ancient spells and powerful workings, and if they go wrong, the result could be devastating. More devastating than the Breach."

"Radonis implied their use was instinctual," said Dorian, though the words sounded weak even to his ears.

Sera snorted. "Nothing that powerful has an easy switch," she said. "So if you're going to be waving your new magical dick around without any practice, I don't want to be anywhere close."

"Then what do you propose? I try to raise an ancient power who can instruct me in its proper activation?" asked Dorian. "It's not as though I was left any sort of operating manual."

To his surprise, Solas nodded. "I believe there may be answers in Tevinter's most ancient ruins," he said. "Nothing so exact as manuals, but something that may draw you, reveal itself to you, and thus instruct you."

And by the most ancient ruins he meant… "You mean one of the Old God's shrines? Are you mad?" asked Dorian. "Those places were dangerous even before the Venatori picked over them with their grubby little fingers. They set traps!"

"Madness would be to pull power without understanding," said Solas. "We should journey to the Shrine of Razikale. I located it in my journeys, well-hidden. It was free from Venatori intervention. Razikale was the dragon of Mystery, or so they claimed. Where better to search for answers than there?"

Dorian saw Maxwell look at him, waiting for him to object, but as soon as Solas spoke the name, a strong acceptance flooded through him. He frowned, trying to shake off whatever control the Archon's magic was trying to assert, but there was nothing to shake off. This wasn't the insistent blood magic of his father. It wouldn't force him to do anything, and it was barely even a request. He could say no.

However, that no would be wrong.

"Very well," he said instead. "Where is the Shrine?"

Before the elf could answer, Maxwell stood as well. "Are you insane? Absolutely not. You're not going to some dusty old dragon shrine to poke around in old scrolls or whatever you think is so interesting. We need you to join us at the border."

"You could come with me," said Dorian patiently.

Cullen and Maxwell both shook their heads. "They're too close," said Maxwell. "We don't have time."

"We have to have time," said Dorian. The lines of Maxwell's face were pure anger, and Dorian tried not to respond in kind. "I'm no good to anyone if I can't control what this is. This is a place I need to go."

"Let me guess. The blood magic says so," said Maxwell sarcastically, but he paled when Dorian didn't answer. "It doesn't, does it?"

"I don't know," said Dorian. He rubbed a hand across his face. "I don't know. But I know what I'm meant to be doing."

The room fell silent as Maxwell stared at him, his green eyes swirling with battlefield rage, a leader's frustration at being balked, and something infinitely sadder than both. Dorian pleaded with him through that gaze, wondering if his own eyes showed fear or determination. Perhaps they were sick and terrified, which was what he felt now. Maxwell had called him a quitter, and he'd been more right than Dorian had been willing to admit. His whole life had been spent trying to stay smaller than he was, to fight against the shape of the future. But he was large now, larger than he'd ever dreamed, and if he didn't take the responsibility seriously, how could he ever be trusted to do anything?

Eventually Maxwell jerked his head to the side. "Over there."

Dorian sighed and moved over to a small annex, a little nook in the shelves that reminded him so strongly of Skyhold's library that he almost turned away. How many unhappy hours he'd spent there, thinking about Maxwell Trevelyan and how distant they would always be. A god among mortals. And he was no less godlike now that they weren't distant at all - if anything he was even more perfect than he'd ever been. And they were going to fight again.

But Maxwell didn't open with an angry accusation, or even an insinuation. That master of tactics, who always knew the right weapon to use, opened with a soft plea. "Don't leave me."

The words were so heartfelt that Dorian's own frustration melted away, and he leaned his forehead against Maxwell's lowered one. "Maxwell. I'm not. I'll join you as soon as I can," he said. He tried to smile. "I realize you're new to this love idea, but it does survive a little time and distance. Mine survived two entire years here in Tevinter, after all. You have nothing to concern yourself with."

Maxwell made a small noise of dissent in his throat. "I never forgot you, either. You're not any more steadfast than I am."

"A competitor to the end, aren't you," said Dorian affectionately. He ran a hand through Maxwell's hair. "I'll allow you the victory. Even if you did dabble with Bull in my absence."

"He spoke Tevene," said Maxwell unexpectedly. "He would whisper, and I would close my eyes, and it would be you… Maker, you made me such a sap, and I didn't even know it. I was even learning the language so that I could talk you into bringing me back here once you were the ambassador. So you wouldn't be able to say no."

Maker's breath. "It would be unbecoming for an Archon to swoon in his own office," said Dorian, "but I may have no choice if you continue to be so sweet."

"I promise not to make you swoon if you promise not to go to this shrine," said Maxwell. His voice was still soft and loving, and he was the epitome beauty. The light glanced off of his sharpened cheekbones, gentling them into youthful vulnerability, and his small smile was earnest and endearing.

"Don't do that," said Dorian. "Don't manipulate my emotions."

"Does that mean it's working?" asked Maxwell, as he slipped back into his more normal manner, but he still looked young and agonized. "Please, Dorian. I barely made it through yesterday without you. I don't know how I'll survive anything longer. Especially if you go off with that brooding Fenris."

Dorian laughed softly, but he sobered as he leaned up to kiss the southern man. "You wouldn't compromise the Inquisition for me. I can't compromise Tevinter for you. No matter how alluring you are," he said. "Besides, lovers' reunions are always very enjoyable. Passionate, in fact."

Maxwell sighed. "How is it that whenever I spirit you off to convince you not to do something, you end up talking me into thinking that what you want to do is what I wanted all along? And this was before all that blood magic nonsense, so I know it isn't that."

"Because I am always eloquent, always persuasive and, most importantly, always right."

"Disgusting," said Maxwell, but he kissed him anyway. "You're the most arrogant man I've ever slept with."

"That is impossible. You sleep with yourself every night, _amatus_."

Maxwell squeezed his ass threateningly, and Dorian yelped. The Inquisitor grinned, but it wasn't so brilliant as usual. "I love you."

"And I you," said Dorian. "Never doubt it."

The look in his eye said Maxwell was still uncertain, but he released him and gestured back towards the meeting area. "We will get to say a proper goodbye, right?"

The way his gaze traveled over Dorian was ten kinds of sin, and Dorian welcomed every one of them. "Even if we have to clear the office and pleasure each other right here on the desk."

Just as they made it back into the still-tense group, Maxwell grabbed his hips and whispered in his ear, "Oh my sweet mage. We were going to do that anyway."

* * *

In the end, they separated into two teams. Dorian, Solas, Cole, Cassandra and Fenris went off to the dangerous shrine while Maxwell, Cullen, Varric, Sera and the soldiers went to meet the forces on the border. Traynor had tried to argue that both teams would need an Inquisition presence, but Maxwell was already annoyed enough about Fenris, and Solas didn't seem to want them anyway. Besides, a small force would move more quickly.

Cullen and Cassandra decided on their separation with disciplined equanimity, a devotion to duty that Maxwell didn't understand in the least. They slipped away to say a quiet goodbye, and from what he could tell they only kissed chastely for a few minutes before rejoining the group.

He, on the other hand, had brought Dorian to a shuddering climax on his very large, very sturdy desk, then said a lengthy and loud goodbye in the Pavus bathhouse that had Sera slapping him on the back when they finally emerged, clean and sated. Cullen had looked a little jealous of their enthusiasm, and Maxwell resolved to give him some friendly advice on the road.

Anything to keep his mind off of his fear.

They rode to the gates together before splitting up on the road, and just before they went their separate ways, Cole nosed his mount over to Maxwell's. The spirit had a surprisingly gentle way with animals, including unfamiliar horses, and both of their mounts waited quietly and peacefully. "Dorian will save the world," he said. "And then he'll be a god, like you."

"I'm not a god."

"That depends on who worships," said Cole. "Prayers and pleas and pleasures are all the same in the dark."

Maxwell looked over at Dorian, who was fussing with the buckles on his road gear adorably. "Actually, I usually like the candles to be lit."

"I know," said Cole, smiling. "It was a metaphor. Sometimes it helps to dress an idea in another word's clothing." The spirit cocked his head to the side. "You're hurting, but I still can't help."

"That's okay," said Maxwell. "Help him instead. Keep him safe for me."

Cole nodded. "I'll keep Fenris away from his bedroll."

So Cole helped after all, because when Dorian clasped his hand one last time before riding off to the north, Maxwell held a smile in his heart, thinking about how outraged Dorian would be when Cole set himself up as guardian of his virtue.


	22. Focused Defense

Dorian chased Cole out of his bedroll every night, the spirit protesting that he was helping, as Cassandra and Fenris bit back their laughs. Fenris's amusement was the most galling of all, as the elf hadn't looked at him twice since they left Minrathous, with interest or anything else. When Dorian accused him of deliberately trying to annoy Maxwell, Fenris didn't deny it.

"Perhaps you should be grateful he still draws breath, magister," he said one morning at breakfast, and Dorian huffed as Fenris leaned back to stare at the sky. "Given the choices, I thought you'd be pleased with my restraint. But I suppose slave masters are never happy."

"I'm now paying all of my servants, and he didn't kill Hawke," snapped Dorian, but Solas interrupted them to urge them to gather their things. Between the elf and the Seeker they were setting a traveling pace faster than Dorian had ever moved, save the trip back to Tevinter with Shayla at his side. She'd stayed behind in Minrathous to manage the revolution while Maevaris took care of the country, and he missed her on this journey, he had to admit. She hadn't exactly been an amusing companion, but she had been gentle. All of the spiky energy around him was playing havoc with his bloody new gift.

His connection to the Fade seemed to be waning as they moved. Or not waning, not exactly, but receding into the distance. When he thought to, the familiar magic he'd always known was there and waiting. But more and more it was easier to find the power from the earth, stronger and hotter and more potent than the sips of Fade spirits. Cole had once claimed the Fade whispered to him, alarmingly, but when Dorian asked him if this new magic told him things, the spirit shook his head.

"We can't hear the places we're not from," he said, as though that explained anything. "It's different. Like trying to listen to horses. The sounds are there, at the edge, but they don't _mean_ anything. Their words are only for themselves."

"I see," said Dorian, who didn't really, but he'd learned in the war that pushing for clarity only made Cole less comprehensible.

Cole looked at him straight on, then, a gesture so unusual that Dorian nearly dropped his reins. "You're different now. Stolen, sliding away, secret. I don't like it. The Inquisitor wants you safe, but which you does he want me to keep?"

"The handsome, charming version I expect. That's the one everyone likes."

The boy laughed, high and pealing through the woods, and Cassandra tensed as she looked for enemies in the trees. Her face was more than a little vexed, and Dorian tried his best governess shush. Cole didn't seem to notice. "That was better," he said. "More Pavus, proud and puffed up. Can I still ask you questions?"

Dorian wasn't sure how he felt about being called puffed up, but he nodded. "Our bargain was never rescinded. And I believe I owe you for that little episode after I reached Tevinter."

"Why don't you think about your father anymore?"

"I do," said Dorian, surprised. It was a constant beating at the back of his mind, their deaths and who to destroy in their memory.

Cole jerked back. "No. That's just pain, hurting, the echoes and ends. But you used to love him, like water gathering underneath a desert. Now you love the Inquisitor. Why did it change?"

Fenris coughed behind them, and Dorian raised a hand to his head. "That's… not exactly the same thing. Love comes in different flavors."

"Petit fours from Leliana, all tasting of something new. Yes. There is more now. The things The Iron Bull gives the kitchen girls, in their bed," said Cole, solemn as an owl. "But there are other parts that are the same. When you do something impressive, you wanted your father to see, but it's not him now. Furtive glances, breathless waiting. Did I do well enough this time? His eyes are green and proud, watching you, but you always need more."

"Yes, I am a needy little creature, aren't I?" said Dorian, but his heart wasn't in it. He stared at the spot between his mount's ears, watching them flick and toss as though it too was listening.

"Any man would be a fool not to be proud of what you've done," said Fenris quietly. Dorian twisted to look at him, and the elf's face glowed with embarrassment instead of magic. "Don't get the wrong impression. I can recognize your accomplishments and despise you at the same time. With mages, that's always been very easy for me."

The elf moved away, and Cole smiled. He sobered when he looked back at his horse and said, in a far away voice, "I'm worried."

"I didn't know spirits could worry," said Dorian, shaking off his own small smile.

"We can't," said Cole. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an amulet, a small crystal on a string, and touched it with the tip of his finger. It flared slightly, and he nodded. "Varric?"

Dorian was on the verge of asking if Cole had forgotten his name when the dwarf's voice came from the amulet. "Hey, kid. Guess you're alone?"

"Yes, I was very clever," said Cole proudly.

"I never doubted you. Pass me to Sparkles."

Dorian took the amulet gently, turning it over in his hand. "Fascinating. Sending crystals? I'd only heard rumors."

"Well, turns out when you're in the Archon's office, sometimes things go missing. If they're needed," said Varric. "And we thought we needed them."

"Who's we?" asked Dorian. "And what do we need them for?"

"Let's just say that watching Our Glorious Leader tie himself in knots every time you step into another room is only amusing the first five dozen times," said Varric, and even through a magical connection his grin was obvious. "Hang on a minute."

There was a jostling noise, the sound of buckles against leather, and a burst of laughter that Dorian envied fiercely from his position among this dour bunch. "Hey, Your Inquisitorialness!" he heard, and his heart beat a little faster.

"Cassandra wants a good seduction," Maxwell was saying, and Dorian stared at the crystal in confusion. "You're very tall and broad and not bad-looking, but that only gets a woman to the door. You have to get her into the room. Look, do what I'm doing with my eyes."

"I don't think my eyes do that," said Cullen's voice, and Dorian smirked. If his guess about what Maxwell was doing was correct, the Commander was probably right.

Maxwell growled. "Of course they do, everyone's do, you just - what, Varric?"

There was some grumbling, more noise of movement, and finally Varric said, "Okay, go ahead."

"Go ahead and _what_?" said the Inquisitor, clearly exasperated.

"Annoying everyone around you already, _amatus_?" said Dorian. "It's only been three days."

Silence, then Maxwell said, "Are you a demon?"

Dorian laughed. "Not as far as I'm aware. These are sending crystals, one of the legends of Tevinter invention that are apparently quite real. Our companions seem to think you get antsy without my dulcet tones."

"That's one word for it," said Maxwell, low and seductive, and Dorian hoped that Varric had left him alone. Not that it would have stopped the Inquisitor. "Are you safe? Any trouble?"

"We're quite safe, though what with Cassandra's glowering, Fenris's brooding, and Solas's dry academia, I may perish of gloom before long."

Maxwell's voice lightened. "My poor little mage," he said. "You must be wilting in their society. How can I help?" Before he could answer, Maxwell added, "What are you wearing?"

Dorian looked at Cole, who was listening with interest. "I'm not exactly alone," he said. "Besides, I'm on a horse, one of my least favorite positions, and I will never forgive you if you make it even more uncomfortable."

"You look sinfully regal on a horse," said Maxwell. "But fine. Is Fenris behaving himself?"

"As well as he ever does. About that, are you the one who gave Cole the idea to sleep in my bedroll?"

Maxwell laughed, loud and lustily, and Dorian wanted to kiss and slap him all at the same time. It was good the other man couldn't see his face.

"I knew you'd like that," said Maxwell. There was a pause, and then his voice came back a little quieter. "Looks like we're moving out. Are these things only one-time use?"

"I'm not sure. I've never seen one. But I doubt it. We like our magic a little more permanent than that, up here."

"Good. Use it again later. When you're alone. And in one of your more favorite positions."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "I am not going to use a stunning accomplishment of Imperial magic for bedroom talk with you. Even I have some lingering propriety."

"You don't have to talk," said Maxwell. Dorian could almost see his eyes sparkling with wicked humor. "You can just listen."

"You're incorrigible. Go back to confusing our dear Commander," said Dorian. He sighed, too softly for the crystal to hear.

"Keep yourself safe, love."

The crystal faded to its duller sheen, and Dorian reached up and wiped a tear away from the corner of his eye. Cole blinked at him, once, then said, "Still worried, but softer. Lighter." He reached out and slipped the amulet over Dorian's neck, somehow avoiding dumping them both on the ground. "I'll keep trying."

* * *

Later that night Maxwell did talk him into sacrificing what little remained of his willpower, and Dorian said a brief apology to his ancestors as he slunk back into camp with a paltry amount of firewood, a head full of sinful thoughts, and a set of traveling leathers that would likely never be the same again.

Cole's delighted smile from his bedroll, mere inches from his own, really was the icing on the shameful cake.

* * *

When Maxwell emerged from his own stand of trees, miles and miles away, Varric was waiting for him with a knowing smirk. "Did you have a nice chat?"

Maxwell grinned. "As though you weren't taking notes. _This Shit Is Weird_ is going to make the Randy Dowager's list now," he said. Varric raised a satisfied eyebrow and said nothing, and Maxwell tucked the crystal back under his shirt before sauntering back to the camp. "You're very welcome. After all, I wouldn't want you to leave your fans unsatisfied."

* * *

The Tevinter soldiers, ordered to the rendezvous by Dorian's hastily scrawled missive, were waiting in neat, deadly rows when they arrived. Fortunately they were so surprised to see an Inquisition squad alongside a squad of their own Templar forces that they didn't have time to draw their weapons before Maxwell slid into his own version of battle. He advanced to the head of his group and swung off of his horse with a careless attitude that he hoped made him look like he'd been expecting a warm welcome. And that he hadn't noticed the way the ones in the back were correcting their lack of ready weaponry.

"I'm sorry to be late," said Maxwell. "We're not as familiar with the country as we should be. Which of you is the ranking captain?"

A man, small and scarred, stepped forward with his hand on his sword. "I am. We're here to fight the Inquisition."

The heavy meaning in his voice, even through his thick accent, wasn't lost on Maxwell. "Ah yes, I see the confusion. Archon Pavus is brilliant but imprecise. Actually, the purpose of this mission is _not_ to fight any Inquisition forces, but if it becomes necessary, we will certainly not be the ones you're fighting."

The captain frowned. "But… aren't you the Inquisitor?"

"I am," said Maxwell, raising his hand to let it flash across them all. He heard Sera grunt in annoyance at the magical display, but there was nothing he could do about her now. "But while the forces coming here are mine, they are not coming on my orders. They've been led under false pretenses, by leaders who failed in their understanding, a feeling I'm sure all of you have had at some time or another. I want to stop them. Without bloodshed."

The captain was too hardened to roll his eyes, but Maxwell could see the desire to do so on his face. "I know, you're thinking that that's exactly what I would say if I were an advance force trying to clear the way into the country for his people," he said, and the captain slashed a smile. "My Inquisition isn't a conquering force. It's a force for peace. If we wanted to conquer this country, we would have attempted it long ago."

"So it's only a coincidence that this is happening after our government has been slaughtered."

Maxwell hesitated. "No, I wouldn't say that. But it's not _my_ coincidence. Believe me when I say that I have a very personal interest in the bright future of this country. As an ally of the Inquisition, not an annex."

"That's Commander Cullen Rutherford," said a voice from the middle of the phalanx, and metal squeaked as a number of them craned their heads to see. "Ask him."

Cullen stepped forward, keeping his hands free of his weapon as Maxwell had instructed, though it seemed against his every instinct. "The Inquisitor speaks truly," he said in his booming battlefield voice. Maker damn the man, he was still better at that than Maxwell was. "We invited you here, to see. To aid our own cause. If we wanted to invade, we would have marched them past you without incident. Even if we were to ambush you now, my men would be at risk. _My_ men. I don't sacrifice people for the whims of subterfuge. We want only peace."

The captain nodded slowly, and Maxwell kept a smile off of his face with effort. Ah, noble Cullen. So upright. So honorable. So very incapable of telling a lie. That had been awkward at times, particularly at Halamshiral. But Maxwell was very good at turning weaknesses into strengths. And Cullen's reputation preceded him everywhere.

"Let's say that we believe you," said the captain. He crossed his arms, but Maxwell could see that he was already mostly won. "You expect two armies to meet and not shed blood. Do you also expect the Maker to show up and remake the Golden City right on the Tevinter border?"

Maxwell crossed his arms to match, letting loose his hero's grin he'd worked on so carefully in front of all of those mirrors. "You don't need the Maker. You have me."

* * *

The Knights of Uncheerable Duty, as Dorian had dubbed them, arrived at the shrine near dusk after five days' journeying. Dorian didn't wonder that it had never been found. Solas led them off the trail at a random place, through some of the densest woods he'd ever been through, then slipped through a join in the rock that looked too small for a nug but turned into a narrow alley beyond it. The temple itself was wrought in materials that blended into the wood around it, instead of the usual gleaming columns and marble the rest tended to throw around, and it was smaller than the usual as well.

"I suppose this fits the Mystery Dragon," said Dorian. "It hardly seems worth the worship to trek all the way out here."

Fenris snorted agreement, but Solas was staring at a strand of trees. "Someone else has been here since I left," he said. He stepped forward, all alert, and the rest of them lost their amusement. Cole vanished, Cassandra moved to point and Fenris to the rear, and even Dorian was impressed with the level of cohesion in their little group. Maybe humor really was anathema to efficiency.

It was almost anti-climax when there was nothing there. Or, nothing to his eyes. Fenris and Cassandra both claimed that leaves and berries and such had been moved around in such a way that indicated a fighting force had stopped there. Solas also said that the animals around them were behaving as though they'd already been startled before. Dorian, who'd always taken at least a dozen cushions along in his wagon when he ventured out of Qarinus, before joining the Inquisition anyway, wasn't in much of a position to judge.

"Do you sense anything?" asked Solas. He nodded back to the temple when Dorian gave him a confused look.

"Oh." Dorian made the light touch back to the earthen magic, a delicate connection he was getting better and better at with practice, and he nearly fell over when the answering pool of magic grabbed at him with fearsome strength. It was a little like a demon's temptation on the other side of the Veil, but the Fade had never been quite so… aggressive. He should have guessed that Imperium wouldn't have settled for anything less.

When he broke the link and opened his eyes, he realized they were all waiting for him. "There's something. But I don't think it's a person. And it's not out here at any rate."

Solas sighed. "I too sense no one. Perhaps they grew weary and moved on from this place, or were destroyed by the powers inside the temple. Be vigilant."

 _Like asking water to be wet_ , Dorian thought to himself, watching Cassandra gird herself to impossible new levels of alertness. She signaled them to move towards the temple, and Dorian hoped that whatever they found inside would be worth it.

* * *

Unlike the Shrine of Dumat, all columns and vaulted ceilings and decorative etchings, the inside of this temple was understated and pale. They lit the few torches there were, but somehow they only made the dim corners dance away more into the shadows. Dorian frowned when an association teased at him, and he realized it was how he felt when Cole was near but trying to be forgotten. Or, come to think of it, how he'd felt trying to explain a concept hidden behind a wall of blood magic.

A temple of mystery, indeed.

As they wound through small rooms with midnight-black decorations and onyx doors, Dorian didn't have to reach any longer to feel the power lurking inside of it. But it wasn't threatening. It was welcoming, and that scared him silly. He tried his best to remain sanguine, but of course a friendly spirit was like a beacon across the soul, and Cole slipped back from his ghostly half-Fade realm to take Dorian's hand in his own.

It was slightly ridiculous for the Archon of Tevinter to clasp hands in fear of the dark like a child going into a spidery basement, but Dorian could only care about so many things at once. The slither of torchlight along the walls was beckoning him, trying to capture his eyes with is movement. The stones whispered, asking him for something he couldn't name. He was a half-step away from melting into the black, or so it felt. Cole's hand in his seemed to mute the pull, draw him back into the world, and that was good. Better to look foolish and be steady than look steady and be foolish.

Besides, he refused to be rescued by anyone but Maxwell Trevelyan. He reached towards the sending crystal with his free hand, tempted and afraid, but he let it fall before he called. What could he tell him? Help, I'm walking through a supernatural nexus that wants to vanish me into its dark bosom and I need you to tell me a joke? Or be here, immediately, keeping me whole? That would certainly sound like the plea of an urbane lover. No, he would stick with Cole and be glad of it.

So when Solas turned to look at him, then raised his eyebrow in surprise at his companion, Dorian didn't turn a hair. But Solas didn't condemn him. "Is something the matter?" asked the elf, in a hushed whisper. Dorian wasn't sure if that was in deference to the atmosphere of the place or a guard against his companion's censure. If the latter, it didn't work. Two warrior's heads swiveled and back, but they also seemed at peace with it.

Dorian even saw a hint of jealousy on Fenris's face, and he resolved to tease him mercilessly about his fear if they made it out of all of this in one piece. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

Cole squeezed his hand, and Dorian realized he hadn't answered. "You don't feel it?" he asked. "Like a hand, beckoning?"

Solas shook his head. "No. Blood magic interferes with my ability to walk the Fade."

"I can use both," said Dorian.

"Use and mastery are not the same thing," said Solas, before turning his attention back to the walls. He stopped suddenly, and Cole almost ran into him. "Read this."

Solas brandished a torch above him, and Dorian shivered when the light touched the silvery carvings on the wall. "It's in ancient Tevene. I can't read that." Nor did he want to try.

"Try," said Cassandra. "I would like to finish with this in time to rejoin the Commander, if possible."

"And here I thought you were still waiting for the first joining," murmured Dorian, but he smiled at her when she huffed in irritation. "Very well. I suppose it would be unconscionable for me to keep a Princess from her knight."

"Never say that again," she said. "Particularly not in Varric's hearing."

If she thought Varric needed his help to come up with that story line, she was deluding herself, but Dorian only crossed his heart solemnly before looking up where Solas still pointed. The letters wavered and split, then pulled together again into something coherent, and Dorian gasped and stepped back.

Solas reached out and yanked him forward again, none too gently, and Fenris moved behind him to hold him in place. "What does it say, mage?"

"It claims that this is place for the sacrifice to be… prepared. To harness the requested power. It's very detailed as to the slicing required," said Dorian. He shook his head. "I'm not _sacrificing_ anyone. If this requires some kind of genteel murdering, count me out. I'll take my chances with intuition and genius, thanks all the same."

Fenris spun him around so quickly he lost his grip on Cole, but the lyrium glow on the elf's skin was more than enough to keep him distracted. "How do you think this way? Did you not grow up in Tevinter, magister?" he asked in rapid Tevene. "There is power offered to you, and you turn aside?"

"You take it, if you want it so badly," said Dorian, furious and shaking.

"I want no stench of magic on me, magister," snarled Fenris. "Magic is a tool, one that should be discarded once it's been used. I would purge the world of all magic, if I could."

"Well now you sound like one of us. Congratulations. I always thought the disposability of life was a concept invented by the powerful elite, but it turns out any man can espouse it, so long as he holds no value for a group."

Fenris's hands tightened on his arms. "I want Hawke back!" he growled, in common once more.

Dorian blinked at the non sequitor. "Hawke died in the Fade. He was trapped with a demon. He can't come back."

A flash of lyrium, a sound of unearthly pain, and Dorian wondered if honesty had doomed him yet again. But instead of ripping him in two, Fenris pulled him close, as close as a lover, and held his mouth to Dorian's ear. "He can come back," he whispered. "He can. I hear him, in my dreams. He's still alive in there, Dorian. Please."

The agony in his voice was enough to rouse Dorian's sympathy, but he had no idea what to do about it. Hawke was certainly dead. Spirits could become anyone, with enough practice, and Hawke had almost surely been hero enough to attract spirit followers.

Before he could say anything, Solas spoke. "Fenris," he said. " _Da'len_. This does not progress us."

The lyrium didn't fade, but Fenris took a long, shuddering breath and stepped back. "Forgive me. You're right. I don't know what came over me."

"This place reveals hidden things," said Solas kindly. "We must be on our guard." He looked around. "I do not think there will be a sacrifice required here. Dorian has claimed his power. Radonis knew of the patterns to make, I believe."

Dorian thought back to the position of the slices on the former Archon's arms, the precise slashes that had seemed so incongruous at the time. He looked back at the writing, still terrifying but more familiar. "Yes, I think you're right. I wonder if it works as well away from this place as in it."

"That is what we must discover," said Solas. "There is still more to learn."

He glided away into the darkness, and they all shuffled behind. Fenris's hands clenched and released as he walked, his sword slung across his back. He only looked back at Dorian once, expression unreadable, and Dorian wished there was something he could do.

"You're helping," said Cole as he took Dorian's hand once more, and Dorian wanted to believe him very much. The rooms grew progressively darker as they moved, and Dorian would swear that there was something following them through the gloom, gaining with every step.

* * *

Maxwell toyed with the amulet around his neck and considered bringing its glow to life. He stood on a hill, looking out over a fighting force that was bigger than he'd hoped but smaller than he feared. Chantry banners fluttered in the wind of the Anderfels, and he saw the familiar eye of the Inquisition watching him from wagons and standards and the hearts of his people.

His people. He didn't want to fight them at all. Dorian would ask him what he would do, and then he would know.

When a small force detached itself from the main contingent, he saw a giant hat and a purple hood and lowered his hand. So Leliana had agreed to talk. That was good. If only he knew what he was going to say.


	23. Virulent

The Inquisition spiraled into darkness, lighting torches that grew fewer and further between. But somehow the darkness had gained a texture all its own, a sort of inverse light, and the rational part of Dorian's mind catalogued this phenomenon with unerring accuracy. Something interesting to discuss over brandy, in the comfortable library of Skyhold, with Maxwell pretending interest in every word…

"You're muttering again," said Cassandra sharply, and Dorian subsided.

In one long stretch of hallway, he'd cast fire on the end of his fingers and nearly blinded them all with the glow. It had earned him concern and reproach in equal measures, and ever since he'd tried to curb the outward manifestations of the decidedly irrational part of his mind. That part which felt eyes on him, from every direction, but eyes that were all part of one face.

 _I'm starting to sound like Cole_ , he thought, and just as he shook himself back into some semblance of sanity, they stepped into a large antechamber deep beneath the earth. The ceiling was low, stooping and utterly claustrophobic, but the walls stretched out to infinity in the gloom. Dorian had half-expected crypts or corpses, but beyond the pillars propping the place up, there was little inside other than a raised dais and a low wall of inscription behind it.

Solas turned with a minute shift of his shoulders that shouted relief. "We've arrived. It can be done."

"Thank the Maker," muttered Cassandra. "This was starting to feel like the Grand Necropolis. I now understand why they sing so much."

Dorian stepped towards the dais, pulled by a force felt but unseen, but he stopped when he saw Solas fade and sharpen in front of him. The bald head swirled, replaced by long, dark hair, and his utilitarian road wear flattened and raised into formal battle armor. Women's formal battle armor, the elven type seen in ancient digs and Tevinter monographs and fairy stories that had never been true. He was beautiful, and cruel, and very, very old.

When he blinked, Solas was Solas again, faintly smiling and superior as always. Dorian turned back to the group, not knowing if he was looking for confirmation or blankness on their faces. Fenris and Cole were still and unsurprised, but Cassandra's mouth was open and her weapon ready.

"What was that?" she asked. Dorian felt her gather that Seeker power, the one that would turn lyrium to fire, but nothing happened, and he realized with a start that he could barely feel the Fade down here, so close to the seat of ancient Tevinter.

"A secret revealed," said Solas, voice breaking into two. One was the familiar musical arrogance, arrogance untempered by Maxwell's self-awareness and thus extremely annoying, and the other was a husky pleasure, female and foreign. "Cole."

The spirit moved so quickly that Dorian barely saw him as he wrapped a slim forearm around Cassandra's throat and pressed with terrifying care. The Seeker tried to swing back and fight, but Cole had leverage and surprise on his side. Dorian surged forward, tried to reach for whatever power was at hand, but Fenris gripped his arms with force, sinking just that hint into his skin that was so very controlling. Some of the power rose at his call regardless, and dust scattered around them as the temple shook and threatened to break.

Dorian stopped instantly, mute and helpless as Cassandra slowly slid into unconsciousness. Never had he wished for Maxwell so badly, and never had the man been so far away. Even the amulet tucked beneath his armor was distant and unreachable. But a small comfort was that Solas knew nothing about it. Perhaps that was a way to save the world, even if it couldn't save the Seeker.

"This will help," whispered Cole as she stopped resisting. He looked at Dorian, his light eyes unreadable in the darkness and beneath that ridiculous hat. "She'll live. Hurt now to help later. Cullen and Cassandra, noble and forever."

 _So speaks every traitor in the history of the world_ , thought Dorian furiously, and Cole whimpered and turned away. "What are you?" he said aloud, looking to Solas. "Which demon? What did you do with Solas?"

As though he needed to ask which one. Pride had always been Solas's namesake and weakness. Though Dorian usually associated beautiful women with Desire. Or rather, _he_ didn't. But his lengthy discussions during tutoring did. Some of his classmates had been very specific.

But the elf surprised him. "I am Solas. Do you think one such as me could be bested by a spirit? Have more faith than that, Archon."

He raised his hands, glowing with the green of rift magic that he'd always used so easily, and his violet eyes were clear and unmarked. Dorian had seen abominations, a natural hazard of studying in progressive, boundary-testing Tevinter, and this was not it. Demons couldn't use the magic of their hosts. And their eyes always held that little more. That little extra madness. Solas was feral, but sane.

"But you have a secret," said Dorian instead.

"Don't we all?" asked Solas. His eyes sharpened. "You have one even now. Something about the Inquisitor."

Dorian moved his mind to the bedroom quickly, keeping it as far away from the link around his neck as he could. Maxwell's love of talking, of being heard, of commanding. The way he sounded breathless with want. The callous on his finger that Dorian felt through every nerve ending when he pressed it into him. Secrets.

Solas shrugged. "If we stay long enough, we'll learn what it is."

Fenris snarled behind him. "No more talking. Let's finish this." His ghostly fingers moved inside Dorian's arms, and Dorian bit back a cry of pain. Fenris seemed to feel his new tension, and he murmured an apology as he changed to a more normal grip.

"Well, aren't we polite at our ritual murders?" asked Dorian wildly.

"We're not going to kill you," said Fenris. The air changed as he looked up. "Correct?"

"I hope it doesn't become necessary," said Solas. "The human world will need some stability in the days to come to avoid needless suffering. And our allies should not be so easily discarded. That is the only thing that separates us from evil."

None of this sounded promising, and Dorian searched for the right questions to ask, the keys that would unlock the riddles that Solas seemed incapable of leaving behind him even now. Before he found it, Cole spoke from his left, a shadow of a sound. "Arlathan is lost. But what is lost will be found again, when the Fade is here with us. Torn curtains are chaos, meaningless hints of vision. But if we remove them, we see the light."

For once, he thought he followed the vague spirit. "The Veil," said Dorian. "You're going to tear it down."

Solas smiled, thin and pleased. "No. We are."

* * *

Leliana and Vivienne were a studied contrast as they joined Maxwell at the midpoint of their armies. Leliana was wild and fired, though she showed no overt signs of it. The glacial calm of the Nightingale overrode the lights in her eyes at every moment, an unsettling seesaw of emotion, like rocking on the waves. Maxwell studied her for a minute before the association came to him - one of the Chancellors during his training, the one who'd been gripped with a holy fervor for conversion that made even the Grand Cleric a little nervous. He'd been shuttled quietly away to the Grand Cathedral, where they knew how to handle an overabundance of religion tactfully.

Vivienne, of course, was pure ice inside and out, and Maxwell had no doubt she'd steered Leliana very adroitly to get her to this point. A lay brother walked alongside her carrying an impractical, comfortable, chair, and he settled it on the grassy knoll they'd selected. She sat like a woman taking tea with royalty and fixed an arch smile on Maxwell, standing across from them. "Hello, darling. You're looking quite fit, I see. Heresy suits you," she said. "Tell me, where is dear Cassandra? I would very much enjoy hearing her side of this debacle. I knew she had little social grace, of course, but I never doubted her devoutness."

On cue, Cullen shifted behind him, and Vivienne smiled. "But perhaps we can defer that topic. I must confess I always doubted the Nightingale's pronouncement that you had perished, but I do admit I had hoped. To have the Inquisitor shift his allegiance to the Imperium of all places…"

"My allegiance is to all of Thedas," said Maxwell evenly.

Vivienne's hat tilted in precise fashion. "Does that allegiance extend to the Qunari? The lingering Venatori, scrabbling in the mountains like rats? The Nevarrans who even now distrust you?" she asked. "My dear, your idealistic visions have always been charming, but take care they don't stretch into dangerous impossibility."

"I'm not an idealist."

Her only answer was a pitying look, but Leliana strode between them and grabbed his arm so quickly he couldn't react. There was no flicker of steel in her free hand, but his trip to the future had shown him that the Nightingale was very adept at fighting without traditional weaponry. "Are you a demon? A spirit?" she asked fiercely. "You're supposed to be dead."

Maxwell wrenched himself away with effort. "And was that your doing? I never found out where the rebellion found their newest little poison."

Leliana's eyes widened a small fraction, which was a yelp of surprise from anyone else. "You think that I would attempt to kill you? To what end?"

"To _this_ end," said Maxwell. He swept his arm across the throng of Inquisition forces with a little more pique than necessary. "To seize control of everything we built, for yourself. To get me out of the way!"

"I can't believe you think I would -" Leliana began.

"Hey, hey, he didn't mean it quite like that," said Varric, stepping forward with palms in the air. "Let's not fight in front of the children, okay?" When everyone stared at him, he gave an exaggerated smile. "I think he's just distracted with his torrid new romance. You know how starry-eyed lovers get. They lose all semblance of tact."

Maxwell's mouth dropped open, but a lurking Josephine clapped her hands in delight. "Then they have at last united? An excellent development. We should be able to reach an Imperial accord with all haste."

Varric nodded vigorously. "And he's Archon! Official votes and everything."

Josephine whipped out her writing board and a quill, biting her lip as she wrote. "I had heard rumors, but I hardly dared to hope. A ball must be planned, of course. Is there a suitable venue nearby? It's fortunate we are all here already. Delays will only prolong lingering instability," she said. She turned to Maxwell. "Would you prefer to make your entrance with the Archon, Lord Trevelyan, or would you prefer the Marcher custom of opposing entries?"

He took a deep breath, ready to ask what in the name of Andraste's ass she was going on about, but he paused when he saw the fine lines of tension around her eyes, the gleam that was less insensible desire for a party and more the headlong rush of a charger bearing down on an objective. This was Josephine at her most diplomatic, and he belatedly realized how deftly she'd avoided his Inquisitorial title.

Varric, too, was employing the dimwitted largesse he only brought out in the most dangerous situations. So this was their plan. Smooth things over by ignoring the coup entirely. It was better than any he'd had, he supposed.

"I'll leave that up to Dorian," he said with a twinkling grin. "He'll get his way anyway, so I'd rather avoid giving you the headache of changing all of the arrangements, Lady Montilyet."

She laughed. "I appreciate that. But tell me, when did this happy event occur?"

"Ages ago. I won the pool," said Sera triumphantly from the outskirts of the group. She plopped down on the grass and grinned evilly. "You don't know anything about sex."

Instead of sighing in her usual exasperation, Josephine's smile only widened. "I suppose I did underestimate their mutual zeal," she said. Her tones were sunny, false, and harried. _See, we're all allies. Joking, laughing, familiar. There's no need for war between friends._ Maxwell heard it as clearly as if she'd spoken aloud.

Vivienne's smile was carved in marble, and the frown lines between her eyebrows said she was furious, but to Maxwell's surprise she said nothing as they continued to plan this new ball. He wondered, exactly, how much shit they were going to be in when she finally lost her silence, but when Leliana clenched her fists, he realized the Divine had no intention of being remembered as the driver of the dissent. She had always played the Game so very well.

"This is not what we are meant to be doing," said Leliana. "The Imperium has goaded The Maker beyond endurance. Who the Archon is makes no difference. He has charged me with carrying out His will, and I will not falter."

She spoke with a calm rationality that belied the utter insanity of her words, and Maxwell traded a glance with Cullen. "The Maker is… talking to you?" he asked.

"I know His voice as well as I know my own," said Leliana. A small smile rose to her face, beatific and deadly. "He knows which of His instruments are the most faithful. He spoke in my dreams, showed me the world as it could be. Equality. Freedom. A world where a person's actions count for more than their birth."

Maxwell caught the slight blanching of Vivienne's face, and he smiled. "A wonderful world, wouldn't you say, Your Perfection?"

"Absolutely charming, my dear. Exactly what the Maker intended, I'm certain."

Sera laughed loudly from her place on the ground, and Vivienne crossed her legs.

Maxwell turned back to Leliana more seriously. "But that is what Dorian is building, here. He's allying with the rebels. He plans to abolish slavery, or at least reform it to provide dignity. He's a good man. It does matter that he's Archon. You know it. The Maker would approve of this in His world."

A flash of uncertainty crossed her face, and he pressed his advantage. "And if He told you I was dead, that was untrue. Perhaps your dreams were just that. Dreams. Real or unreal, the answer isn't war with the Imperium."

Josephine shook her head frantically behind the Nightingale as he spoke, but the damage was done. Leliana's expression closed off into mutinous calm once more. "He said you would doubt me. I've been doubted before. Perhaps the death He spoke of, Herald of Andraste, was the death of your walk within His light. Perhaps you have only died in faith," she said. She smiled, thin and calculating. "Still, I'm pleased you live. You will be able to convince Tevinter to lay their arms aside and submit."

"I won't ask them to do that," said Maxwell. "Tevinter is changing, and the Inquisition will not conquer them."

Vivienne leaned back. "It will, Lord Trevelyan. The only question is what the price will be to your newly adopted land."

* * *

"While I am a prodigy, I must admit I know nothing about destroying the fabric that separates reality from dreams. My apologies. If you could just show me to the exit…" Dorian trailed off as he looked around him in careful confusion.

"You always did look to escape with humor," said Solas, so like Maxwell that Dorian froze. The elf smiled. "Yes, I know of that argument as well. I've been preparing this for some time, though granted not in this way. But come, you're a scholar like myself. Do you not wish to hear the tale behind it all?"

Dorian shrugged assent. "It has been ages since our last little disagreement during story hour. Let me guess, the ancient elves are involved. They always seemed to be."

"And the ancient magisters," said Solas. His voice modulated back to the huskier female tones. "Once, in ancient Arlathan, there came an elf name Fen'Harel. He was from no clan, no city, but he captured the imagination of the ruling mages, the so-called gods of the Elvhen, and he was welcomed into their court with open arms. He had the knack of charming, of beauty, of seduction, and a thirst for knowledge that had him kneeling eagerly at their feet. And these gods loved worship beyond all."

Fenris snorted. "Are you sure you aren't talking about this one?" he asked, shaking Dorian lightly.

"A man of my caliber never kneels to anyone," said Dorian. He paused. _Stall, stall, keep them talking while you work out some brilliant plan._ "Well, briefly, perhaps. But they're generally the ones praising me at that stage."

"Only one understood Fen'Harel's true nature. The wolf inside the lamb's skin," said Solas, as though they hadn't interrupted. "Mythal, the mother, who fell in such violent love with the prowling, hunting creature that she tore the court apart with it. And he so in love with her that, on the night of her execution for this love, he threw open the doors of that golden city and brought the rising slave revolt to their doorstep to destroy them all."

"Let me guess," said Dorian. "He used a virulent poison that only affected mages."

Solas smiled. "No. And yes. It began with the sword, and it ended with the Veil," he said. He turned oddly, in a gesture that seemed to sweep across time. "Imagine a world where magic was not a distant dream, but as immediate as air. Where all one had to do to use it was breathe. The ancient elves existed in such a way, long ago, and all of their power derived from the drops of magic around them."

"Fascinating," said Dorian against his will. He drew his finger along his jaw in thought. "So you're saying magic is an element? Like water, for example, and that Fade spirits are like fish, swimming in their natural habitat?"

"Exactly!" said Solas, nodding vigorously. "An excellent metaphor. Though Tevinter remains a den of slavers and fools, I am, as always, impressed with your perspicacity."

That brought Dorian back from the academic could he was inhabiting. "Thank you. But what did the Veil have to do with this?"

"To continue the metaphor, imagine your world, removed of all of its water instantaneously. Imagine the panic that would ensue. Ten times worse is the loss of power to self-proclaimed god, and to lock magic away from them, behind an impassable curtain, was a living death," said Solas. "They attempted to breach the divide. A calculated attempt that Fen'Harel anticipated, and he locked the door of the prison behind them. They were trapped. They had what they desired - magic - but no ability to use it to affect the physical world. Spirits moved freely, their nature allowing contact with humans, but the elves were too powerful to slip through the cracks of the world. An irony I'm not sure they ever truly appreciated."

"This is all very interesting," said Dorian. "But I still don't quite understand where I fit in to all of this."

Solas lost his amused look. "The elves were free. They should have prospered. But humanity has always been quick to find advantage where they can. Your one skill. Tevinter already used a base type of magic, blood and earth, taught to them by the ancient dragon race that they worshipped. While this magic was eventually vilified by your Chantry, at the time it was all they had. Useful, but powerless in the face of the original elves and their elemental magic. The humans were too brash to recognize it, sense it, or feel it. They fell against Arlathan at every turn.

"But the Veil changed all that. Where Elvhen magic had once been ephemeral and delicate, it was now pooled in a realm flooding with spirits, anxious to touch the minds of the living. They found the magisters, and the magisters had no compunctions about using them for their own ends. They learned this magic eagerly, and the elves were slow to recognize this new way of touching their water. They were weak. The Imperium marched on beautiful, golden Arlathan and set it alight, burning the remnants of that great land. Fen'Harel fought to his last breath, but even a man of his talent couldn't stand against an entire nation. He slept for ages as the magisters rose."

Dorian narrowed his eyes. "So you're saying that when the magisters flung open the Golden City, what they found was… you? You're saying that you're The Maker?" he asked. "You're lucky Cassandra is unconscious."

"Embellishments," said Solas, waving his hand. "I said nothing so melodramatic as they claim in their Chant. But humans are good at invention. And securing their power. The Imperium's dragon-gods were incensed at this new power of their subjects, sensing the weakening of their influence, and they were right to suspect. Within only a few years, the magisters had reinforced the lines of the Veil with their blood magic, strengthening it against falling without understanding in the least what they were doing. They used the new power to entrap their previous gods in the earth, fling Arlathan into the Fade, and slowly learned to favor the elves' magic over their own. But it seems that one was always left to know the old ways. For safety, or for tradition. Or out of necessity."

"The Archon," said Dorian. He looked down at his tanned hands, barely visible in the gloom, and shivered at the blood in them.

Solas nodded.

"And how long have you been manipulating things?" asked Dorian with deceptive mildness. "Manipulating me?"

His anger was a vast sea beneath him, wild and unrestrained, and Solas clearly sensed it. He stepped forward with his usual grace, and though his face held no expression his voice was regretful. "If it alleviates your anger, this was not what I intended for you. But the Inquisitor, and others, refused to comply with my plans."

Dorian said nothing, only glared.

"When I first awoke from my centuries of slumber, I located my _foci_ and attempted to use it to unlock the Veil. It was clear that the elves were beyond saving in their current state, and the only hope was to rip the pool of magic away from their enslavers. Tevinter's reinforcements of it prevented me from unlocking it alone, as I suspected. I turned to Corypheus, a madman corrupted by one of his old gods but an ancient magister nonetheless. He would know the blood magic I couldn't touch. I hoped he would be able to succeed with the Elvhen artifact I provided. But he was selfish, vain, and unstable. He succeeded only in causing chaos. It was not my idea for the world to be overrun with spirits driven mad by the small tears in the barrier."

"How generous of you."

Solas ignored him. "I then hoped the Inquisitor would finish the work, in the final reckoning. He has no knowledge of magic, and is quite frankly intellectually unsuited to any higher learning, but his hand is Elvhen enough, and I intended to guide things correctly. But he refused to allow me to accompany him. He insisted on taking _you_ , and Corypheus was gone before I could intervene."

"Obviously. I'm much more alluring twirling my staff than you could ever be," said Dorian, face hard and set.

"My _foci_ was shattered, but by that point my body had recovered much of its lost power, and my manipulations of the Fade were coming more easily, more certainly. The well of magic was easier to access. I tried one additional path. Perhaps the Inquisitor told you that, during the events of the Blight, an old dragon god was transferred into a small human child, which then made its way to a human woman who believed she housed Mythal," said Solas. He shook his head slowly. "She was not Mythal as I knew her, only a dead echo of the past, but I thought if I could transfer the dragon's soul to myself, the combination would be enough to shatter the Veil as I wished without additional help. But the human had passed it on, to a vessel I could not track, and thus I took the only option remaining to me."

Dorian stepped forward, and Fenris held him but didn't halt his movement. "You fostered a rebellion in Tevinter. You lied to Fenris and his allies that you were stabilizing the world. You induced the Comtesse to poison her wine. You sowed mistrust between the Inquisitor and myself using Shayla to murder. You killed my parents to lure me and Maxwell back to Tevinter. You slaughtered the Magisterium to elevate me and and so you could attempt to kill Maxwell at the same time. And you engineered this entire, bloody war somehow to get me to this temple. To what? Wave my hands and destroy the world?"

"Hawke can return," whispered Fenris, too quietly for Solas to hear, and Dorian felt suddenly sick.

"Comprehensive, but not entirely accurate," said Solas. "I did not lie to Fenris. He and his people are free. The Comtesse was meant to poison the wine, but your learning of it was a mistake. Jolan attempted to handle it at the source, once he understood the stakes of the message, but Shayla's solution served equally though I was sorry to lose an agent. The Inquisitor was not meant to follow you to Tevinter in the least - I had been quietly steering Leliana, through her dreams, to discourage the alliance - and his presence here has done far more harm than good to everyone.

"As for what you are meant to do, you have already done it. You have arrived at a place where you are needed. And I have joined you. You, the key to Tevinter. Fen'Harel, the key to Elvhenan. And this place, a conduit to the Veil and its locks. Here, we will fix the world."

"You bastard," hissed Dorian. He shook Fenris away with a blast of power, rattling the room, and stepped so close to Solas that their faces nearly touched. "You killed my parents. They were bastards, too, but they never treated the world like a chessboard and the people like pawns. You think I would help you after that?"

"Yes," said Solas simply. "All things serve Fen'Harel, in time."

When Dorian gathered the sea of his rage to a single point, it touched the power of earth and blood in a sea of sparks under the skin. "I'll kill us all, first."

But before he could send, before he could even think, Cole was there with a dagger, slicing his arm with a murmur of apology. "This will help," he said, pleadingly. "Dorian, we have to help."

As the power overwhelmed him, it spilled through the blood onto the dais beside them with a sizzle that nearly deafened them all. Cole jumped back, startled, and Fenris yelped, but Solas only reached out calmly with that green magic that now seemed more terrifying than any dozen Red Templars. A sound like ripping, like a parchment slicing in two, came just at the edge of hearing, and Solas smiled. It remained even when the earth around them rattled once more. Dirt rained on them, and they all looked up instinctively.

A barrier that Dorian hadn't noticed dropped from the door, and Solas stepped towards it. "It's complete. You've served ably, Dorian, and you will not be forgotten in this new world. But I suggest we leave, immediately, before the end."

"What do you mean it's done?" asked Dorian as Cole and Fenris lifted Cassandra with effort. He reached out for the so-called Elvhen magic, but the Fade was still too far away to reach. "You took the Veil away?"

"The process is beginning. It will take some time to vanish completely. But the ancient elves will be converging on this spot as soon as it's weak enough, and it's best we're not here to greet them."

* * *

Maxwell was gearing up to say that he wasn't adopting anything, except for an exciting new sex life, when the sky above them tore in two in a terrifyingly familiar way. Only this wasn't the ragged edges of the Breach or a Rift, spitting demons and fire indiscriminately. This was more like the first tear of a package with multiple layers of wrapping, alongside a translucency that only the finest paper ever achieved. Every pair of eyes looked up, and Maxwell stared in horror at the familiar, gauzy dreamscape that he'd stood in too many times now. The Fade.

From this side of the wall, it looked even more menacing.

Leliana swore, Vivienne stood so hurriedly she almost lost her grace, and Varric started praying fervently into Bianca's stock. Sera also swore, but her swearing was directed entirely at the ground. And Cullen checked his sword quietly and looked resigned to death as always.

Spirits and demons gathered at the new window, looking down at the humans and elves and dwarves who were gathered beneath them. Behind the spirits was the second wall Maxwell had seen in his half-death, the one he hadn't tried to breach, filled with pacing figures who had seemed so very angry. He wondered if they were the dead, waiting to return. He wondered if his mother would be among them.

But nothing else happened. He studied the sky, trying to observe and reason as Dorian would. The tear stretched all the way across Tevinter, miles and miles, and it looked to be growing to the west, but the greatest gathering point of spirits seemed to be here. Maybe because there was to be a battle. Maybe because of the peace talks. Maybe because there was no one else as interesting in all of Thedas as the Inquisitor for spectators to watch.

Except for Dorian. With growing horror, Maxwell looked at the direction of the tear and realized it pointed due Pavus. And when he looked back up, he saw the dark, pacing figures moving east, following the ripped line to its origin point, and without conscious thought, without even a flicker of a plan, he raised his hand and _sent_ through the anchor as he never had before. Not even with Corypheus, trapped up in that Fade somewhere dreaming of godhood, had he unleashed this much power.

It burned his soul. But it also worked.

Maxwell's vision started to grey as the tear in the sky halted and started to retract. He was killing himself, he knew with cold certainty, but that didn't matter when the world was at risk. When _Dorian_ was a target of shadowy Fade denizens. He was the hero, and the hero so often died.

He was focusing so completely that he hardly noticed when an elf, barefaced and solemn, detached herself from Traynor's squad and knifed him directly in the back.

* * *

Time slowed to a crawl, and many things that happened all at once seemed a hazy sequence as people ran and shouted and wept.

Sera's arrow went through the elf's throat so quickly that the dagger stopped only halfway into him, but it was more than enough, Maxwell knew. He sank to his knees, reaching up for the amulet he wore and touching it as blood welled in his throat. He felt Vivienne trying to heal him, but her magic fizzled and sparked uncontrollably over his body, and there was no relief to be found.

Hands prodded at his back, shirts ripped and tore as the world watched the Inquisitor bleed out. The crystal around his neck glowed through his closed eyelids, and he spoke across the world to the only man he'd ever loved.

* * *

"Dorian."

Dorian stopped at the doorway, looking down at his chest. It had come from there, Maxwell's voice, but not the carefree flirtation he'd last known. Not even a quiet whisper. This was a gurgle, pained and weak, and his heart dropped into his stomach as he scrabbled at the glow. "Maxwell?" he called. "Maxwell. What is it? Maker's breath tell me you're all right."

"You're in danger," said Maxwell, soft but certain. "Demons are coming. I might not make it. Leave Tevinter. Get away. The Veil…" The voice trailed off into coughing, of a bloody, dying variety.

"No. You're going to make it. I'm coming, _amatus_. Hold on," said Dorian. He waited, breathless, but there was nothing more, and Dorian looked up when Cole made a sudden keening sound and collapsed. He shoved past the rocking spirit and made straight for Solas. "You. What did you do?"

Solas gave him the implacable look of a god. Of Dorian's own father, when he'd wanted something he knew it was his right to have. "The Inquisitor's anchor may have stopped our efforts, if he focused enough will towards that purpose. There were contingencies. I'm sorry it came to this."

"You're _sorry_ ," said Dorian slowly, far above himself. Watching Maxwell die in a hundred ways, and none of the visions were as painful as this empty silence was. " _Sorry_ is exactly what you are. A sorry excuse for a despot, worse than even Corypheus. At least he had the decency to show his contempt. At least he didn't pretend his violence was kindness."

The cut on his arm was still bleeding, pouring new drops out with every beat of his heart, and the things in the earth that watched were stirring, waiting. Dorian fed them his rage. "If Maxwell dies, I will dedicate the entirety of my life to destroying you. And I will succeed. Elvhenan was weak. Pathetic. It knew how to rule. It never understood how to hate."

He piled up more anger, more power, and sent it through the walls. They asked for more, they were hungry for more, and he gave and gave until he felt sure he would break. Necromancy twisted into it, instinctive and easy just as Radonis had claimed. He would protect Tevinter from this elf. Maxwell would never be lost. Dorian stretched his hands out and scored them across jagged stone. "But I understand hatred very, very well."

Another rumble, louder and stronger than any before, rolled through the cavern, and the walls themselves began to shake as though a giant jumped across them. A slithering, dusty, ancient sound surrounded them, and even Solas looked slightly panicked. Just as Dorian was certain that he would flee, just as he was certain that the elf had no chance of fleeing before Dorian reached the peak of his drawing power, a Qunari shadow flowed into the hall in front of them.

"So this seems like a huge fuckfest," said Iron Bull tightly. "Good thing me and the boys are here. Dorian, stop with the earthquakes. Solas, I know you're a great mage and all, but I could snap your scrawny neck, so don't fight me, okay?"

What Solas would have done they never found out, because Dorian finally succeeded in draining his will into the stone, and the walls around them exploded. A familiar roar rose above them on beating, leathery wings, and Dorian collapsed into the Temple's rubble as the reborn dragon soared.


	24. To the Death

_A/N: Please forgive the delay. I have been suffering through the worst writer's block of my life, but I am bound and determined to get through this, and the writing is at least starting to move once more. Do not worry, it hasn't been abandoned. Just delayed... thank you for your patience!_

* * *

When Dorian woke in a pile of gravel, the sickly green sky was a counterpoint to his own nausea. He felt wrung out, used and discarded like a towel on the marble of a bathhouse, and it wasn't all the release of power, the widening crack in reality, or even the rocks that had pelted his skin black and blue. It was the loss of solidity, the earth underneath his metaphorical feet.

Maxwell's voice rang through his mind, but it was empty, like an echo. Like something missing, and all of Dorian's dream-searching across the newly unstable Fade hadn't uncovered a trace of that vital, overwhelming presence in Thedas.

And if Maxwell was dead, then there was nothing to be done but to lay, broken and soiled on the ground, and wait for death himself.

"Vint," said a voice above him. "You awake?"

 _No,_ thought Dorian, head aching. _I'm sleeping. Dreaming. I'm dead and gone, and none of this is real. The world could never be so cruel as all this._

"I fucking know you are," the voice continued, unmistakably Iron Bull's, and if he stood in this place then so many other things were true that shouldn't be. "You think I don't know the difference between a sleeping man and a man waiting to kill me? Get your ass up. We're about to be swimming in demons, and even a useless fighter like you might buy us a few minutes." There was a pause, then a dismissive snort. "Or maybe not. I always knew Trevelyan liked a pretty face around, but I never realized it was so easy for people to sleep their way into power with him."

Dorian's eyes flew open, and he scrabbled to his feet. "How dare you," he spat. Bull's expression was insolent and condescending, and Dorian nearly slapped him. "You may be a barbaric slut, but we're not all so inconstant. You have no fucking idea about any of it. No clue. No…"

He trailed off and closed his eyes, reaching for the sending crystal that was no longer around his neck. A hand pressed against his shoulder, massive and inescapable, but it was gentle for all it demanded his stillness. Bull's voice murmured words of comfort, ancient and childlike, in Tevene, while Dorian breathed.

"You with me?" asked Bull, the hard edge of his voice gone. "Sorry about that, but we need you working. My boys can kill anyone and anything, but you're the one who can tell us where to go."

"Maxwell is dead," said Dorian, almost too soft to hear.

"You seen a body?" said Bull. "Because I fucking haven't."

Dorian took a final, shuddering breath and looked around. The Chargers were watching him cautiously, and Cassandra was pacing the perimeter of the ruined temple at terrifying speed, glancing up at intervals to slash her sword at invisible enemies. Cole, Solas, and Fenris were gone. Nor was there any dragon, though Dorian could feel it. Like an extra limb that had gone wandering, touching things in the distance that couldn't be seen.

"Where's Solas?" asked Dorian, cutting his hand through the air impatiently when Bull growled at his wandering attention. "It matters. Loathe as I am to admit it, I don't have the power to stop this. He's the one who did it." _Mostly._

Bull grimaced. "Always knew he'd be trouble one day. I'd been hearing things, elven crap in the woods, but Red wasn't interested. I just thought she knew more than I did. Dammit," he said. At Dorian's cough the larger man shook himself. "Right. He went through one of those mirror things, like the boss has at Skyhold. We chased him, but it closed before we reached it. Can't get it to open up again. The kid went with him, and some elf with glowing crap all over him."

 _Shit_. "Then we get to the Inquisitor," said Dorian. "The last time we spoke-" a pause, a jolt of pain quickly pushed away - "he said he was a day north of Weisshaupt, on the border. The armies will be massing there. Strength in numbers and all."

Cassandra pivoted towards them like an avenging fury. "Even if we could somehow travel there unerringly, we will be too late to achieve anything," she said. "It's a week away, at least, and the sky is opening. Slower than the Breach, to be sure, but a half a day, perhaps less, and the land will be flooded with demons. We'll stand no chance."

Bull shot her a lazy, perfunctory grin and said, "Then we'll just have to kill a lot of shit on the way," but his heart clearly wasn't in it.

"And if the dragon returns?" she asked. "You were there. Our attacks meant nothing to it. It could have killed us easily, if it didn't think we were, apparently, beneath its notice."

"Don't go borrowing trouble, Seeker," said Bull. "We've got enough of it to drown in already."

"She didn't think you were beneath her notice," said Dorian, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "She was waiting. Her speech was too complicated for your ears."

When he looked back at the two warriors, their expressions doubtful and alarmed, he ran the words back in his mind and hissed. Maker's breath, he really did sound like Cole. But before he could apologize, before he could break down, before could say anything, the phantom limb moved at the edge of his awareness. And it was moving at speed.

"Ohhhh shit," said Bull, hefting his warhammer into the air at the sound of beating wings. "Time to see if all of those dragon hunts were worth it."

"No! Don't attack," yelled Dorian, waving his arms in wild circles.

It made no difference. Cassandra looked at him like she was ready to knock him back into unconsciousness before dashing off, and Bull and the Chargers ignored him completely, running at the - Maker's mercy - absolutely enormous shadow racing towards them over the tossing treetops. The rest of the Chargers arrayed in battle formation, equally spaced, with the hard look of those who'd seen a lot of war.

When the dragon neared Dorian's position it beat back like a bird, scattering air as it slowed impossibly fast and settled on a wide stretch of clearing. Bull ran at it, weapon high, shouting in either Qunlat or gibberish, but the dragon took no notice of him. It stepped forward, stately and curious as no dragon had ever been, and Dorian stared up with less fear than he would have expected.

 _Little Tevinter,_ said the dragon, sibilant inside his head. It spoke Tevene, though in the truest sense it didn't speak at all. _I felt your awakening, waiting in the darkness, and now you have come as I commanded. I appreciate your sacrifice, and your power. Your land does not forget its gods. And so your gods do not forget you._

Bull, Cassandra and Krem hacked away at the dragon's scaled feet ineffectually. Arrows and spells flew around her head, but they bounced harmlessly into the distance.

Dorian hardly noticed any of it, staring into a pair of familiar eyes which had once watched him through temple walls. "So you'll be Razikale, I imagine," he said, striving for a steady voice and mostly reaching it. "I worship the Maker, actually. I don't know if telling an Old God that is blasphemy or stupidity, but there we have it."

"Shoot some magic at it, asshole," screamed Dalish.

"I don't think that would work," said Dorian doubtfully, drawing a wisp of power from the earth as a test.

Razikale laughed, and the jet of fire had Stitches rolling away. _No, little magister. One cannot destroy a thing with its own power. And you worship me in your deeds, if not in your mind. That is sufficient._

"What do you want from me?"

 _A question I should ask you. You are the supplicant, are you not? Less blood than I would have liked in the calling, but still better than the madness that awaited me in the earth._ Razikale paused, then added delicately, _Perhaps you desire the blood of Fen'Harel?_

Dorian's eyes narrowed. "You know him?"

 _I do, though even if I did not his name shines brightly in your human mind. But he is also an ancient enemy, a man who brings only ruin, and I would be happy to hunt him. He flees to the field of battle, to watch the armies of others fall. Such is the way of a trickster._

A fierce wave of bloodlust rolled through Dorian, red and hot and strong. Hadn't he promised this? To kill, and kill well? A hunt would be something worth living for, however briefly. A tiny, rational part of him also noted hesitantly that the key to the Fade rested in that enemy marked for death, but it was a part that was ever-shrinking into the distance.

He nodded decisively. The dragon bowed like a courtier, noble and dainty, even as the attacks around her continued unabated. Dorian realized that she was waiting for him to clamber aboard her back, and he hesitated.

"They won't get tired, you know," he said, gesturing to Bull and Cassandra. Krem was heaving breaths from his place under the dragon's flank, but the Inquisitor's personal warriors were in the best of condition. They'd protected Maxwell for years, and he'd sparred them to within an inch of their lives. "They're infernally persistent."

The dragon said nothing, and Dorian shifted his feet. "Will you allow them to accompany us? They're not Tevinter, but they'll relish the end of the elf as much as I do."

Razikale shrugged, as well as a dragon ever could. _You are the supplicant._

* * *

Dorian had a demon of a time getting the mercenaries to stop fighting, particularly since he had no ale at hand, but after he explained the dragon's offer, multiple times in Cassandra's disbelieving case, they were at last settled on the broad, scaled back and ready to move. The Chargers were partially elated and partially terrified at their new mission. And the part that was elated was entirely Iron Bull.

"I can't believe I'm fucking doing this," grumbled Stitches. "If we fall, there ain't a poultice in the world'll bring us back."

A chorus of fervent agreement broke out, along with a brief prayer from Cassandra.

"We won't fall," said Dorian absently. He switched back to Tevene and said, "Take us to him. And to Maxwell's body."

Bull leaned forward behind him, hard muscles pressed into his back. "Hey. Don't lose hope," he said, too softly for the rest to hear. "The boss always liked that sappy idealistic streak of yours the best. He'll want to see it again."

 _I'll be anything if he's alive. Anything he wants,_ thought Dorian, but he said nothing.

The Qunari moved back to a more usual distance. "Anyone mind if I jack off on this thing?" he asked to the larger group. "I mean, this is basically the best sex I'm ever gonna have." He paused. "Wait, better idea. Seeker, get up here. It'll be good."

And with the protests of his men and the disgusted noises from Cassandra as their accompaniment, Razikale beat her wings in harmony and took to the sky. A monster of legend, now Dorian's to command.

* * *

Later, people always asked him about this part. At every dinner, in the midst of every party, at every government function, there was only one question on their tongues.

"What is it like to ride a dragon?"

Dorian always made something up, something terrifying and awe-struck, because it was expected, but in truth he remembered it only hazily. During the flight he alternated between scanning the ground and sinking into what he could reach of the widening Fade, searching for Maxwell. And he spent much more time on the latter than the former, rendering him nearly insensible for large portions of the journey. Only Iron Bull's fingers routinely tightening on his arms brought him back from the brink of ashen, necromantic death in his desperation to find anything at all.

Well, the fingers and the spitting, groaning sound of reality splitting near enough to touch.

When they found the armies on the border, scanning the ground hardly seemed necessary. The soldiers were spread out across the grass like children's toys, bathed in the sickly green of the expanding crack in the Veil. Dorian had half-thought they might be fighting one another, but they seemed more pensive instead, wandering dots with no purpose or meaning. That was, until the first cries of "Dragon!" drifted up and scattered every fighter to the wind.

Making sense of the battlefield chaos was far beyond Dorian, but Cassandra immediately shouted, "There's Cullen!" and kicked at Razikale's flank like the dragon was a recalcitrant mount.

"Follow her lead," murmured Dorian. Cullen meant the center of things, which meant Maxwell. Solas would wait.

* * *

But Cullen wasn't the true center of things, in the end. The center was a figure, peaceful and still, lying in a pool of crimson-stained grass that clashed with its surroundings even on a battlefield. The center was the bedroom in Fenris's headquarters all over again, only this time there was no rise and fall of the chest. This time it was a permanent smallness, all hope fled, and the rings of people surrounding them were nothing. Nothing at all.

There was yelling and screaming and general pandemonium behind him as Razikale made herself unwelcome, but Dorian couldn't look back. He couldn't even bring himself to care.

He'd known Maxwell was gone, but he hadn't believed it. Bull had made him hope.

He didn't know how long he stared, silent and numb, before Cullen's bulky warrior's presence slid beside him. "We failed him," he said in a voice that was more scratch than sound. "I didn't… I wasn't… I'm sorry, Dorian."

Sorry. Yes, he was sure he was. He was sure they all were, all of the people around him who hadn't loved Maxwell enough. Not nearly enough. Dorian knew, absolutely knew, that had he been there this would never have happened. If he hadn't listened to Solas, to Radonis, to _Tevinter_. Why had he ever thought his little mission so important? Why had he ever believed he belonged anywhere but in Maxwell's glowing presence? The Inquisition was his home. The Inquisitor would have always been the center of his own battlefield.

And what had Tevinter ever brought him worth having?

 _It gave you this,_ said Razikale, breathing through his mind and filling him with hateful, useless power. It was earth-bound, blood and fire and ancient, and it could do nothing to ease this newfound ache that he'd never dreamed he'd find. Maxwell always lived. Always.

"Dorian," said Bull. The Qunari was behind him, close enough to touch but not touching him at all. "It isn't over. This isn't the time for this. We win, we get drunk as shit, we mourn and swear and fuck until this is gone. But we have to fight first, or there won't be anything left."

Dorian turned to snap at him about the differences between civilization and barbarism, about the ways that soldiers fell short, time and again, of the true glories of life, but on his way he saw Cassandra's hand stretch out to Cullen's, a quiet gesture that the golden-haired man leaned into like a prayer. His shoulders relaxed as his fingers curled, though the two of them looked at each other not at all. If Cole had been there to see it, he would have whispered about the easing of pain in the presence of another. He would have been reverent in the face of their comfort.

It was intolerable. Them, and stoic Bull, and the watching eyes of Vivienne and Leliana, traitorous and cold but still alive to see the world. To see him. Any minute they would speak, any second now there would be more comfort, and Dorian was already sick to death of them all.

"Get away from me," he said instead. He turned back to Maxwell, to the point by which he'd always steered. When no one moved, he raised his hands and let the ground below them shake, just a little. "Get away!"

Most jumped backwards, swearing, but Dorian felt Cassandra's narrowed eyes and heavy purpose moving towards him. He raised a barrier without thought, strong and impenetrable, and it settled in a circle around and above him, like the dome of the Grand Necropolis. It muffled the sounds from outside and left only death within. Death and the quiet singing of his grieving soul.

To his surprise, she didn't attack it with her sword or even yell at him to remove it. She only stood, quietly, and watched what he would do next. Well, that was simple. He knelt on the ground and smoothed one shaking hand over Maxwell's head. There was no response, and Dorian nearly wept.

Razikale curled up beside his cage, still under half-hearted attack by the confused battalions. Her mind was sharp, alert and ready, but she said nothing at all. And his allies stood ringed around him and watched him say goodbye.

* * *

"You do realize this is extremely inconvenient, having the hero gone too soon," said Dorian. His hand never stopped moving. His fingers touched every open space there was, every expanse of chilled skin they could find. "Your sense of dramatic timing appears to have been misplaced, _amatus_. Unless this is all a part of the plan to increase the weight of your legend, in which case I must say that you may have overextended yourself this time."

 _Never_ , he heard faintly, supplied by his own memory. _A hero always extends exactly as far as he should and no farther._

Dorian tried to smile, but his mouth didn't seem to remember the proper movements, and it felt more like a pained grimace than anything. "You were always such a liar," he whispered. "I loved you for that, you know. It reminded me of home. Standing in ballrooms and watching the men who knew who they were show the world only what they weren't. They were never quite as handsome as you, of course. Still, I shudder to think that Thedas will remember you as some sort of devout statesman, a diplomatic noble with a quiet air. They'll never know how wretchedly depraved you really were. How frustrating. How intoxicating. How ass-bitingly theatrical. Even I, Dorian Pavus, the most breathtaking man in the Imperium, could never hold a candle to your sense of melodrama."

He paused, and this time the smile came a little more naturally. "Every time you went out on a patrol, we all lined up at the gate to watch you go by on a horse, and you'd give us those carefully crafted little waves. That was the little bargain you struck with us, that you would be miraculous so long as we were awed. Only I'm not sure you ever knew how complicit we were in your legend," he said. A chuckle escaped, dry and unbidden. "Once you went out at dawn, probably because you thought the glint of the dewy morning light would look well against your armor or some other nonsense. Josephine almost lost her life several times attempting to get a throng out of bed quickly enough to admire you properly. Varric never quite forgave her those lost hours of sleep."

Dorian closed his eyes. "I suppose you'll never know any of that, now."

Another question, from his mind or from memory, floated up in Maxwell's rich baritone. A ghostly conversation he was having with himself. "Yes, perhaps I could bring you back. Tevinter is the land of blood magic, and I'm now its master apparently. Perhaps your corpse wouldn't be a shell. Perhaps it would be you," he said quietly. Hope and fear wrestled on the edge of a cliff, and he knew which one would triumph. "But what if it wasn't? What if it was just your body, filled with my magic and reflecting only what I wished to remember? How long would it last before I hated myself for the lie?"

A single tear fell, and he swiped it away. "But what am I to do without you?"

Dorian sat in silence for a time, turning the question over in his mind. He knew if he looked around there would be chaos, and if he looked up there would be ruin, so instead he stared at his still-wandering hand and begged it for some answer.

"I never told you why I became a necromancer," he said eventually. His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat in annoyance. "My father, and Radonis, thought it was to spite his ambitions, and while that thought was never far from my mind, the answer is far more embarrassing. It wasn't for glory, or to succeed at something that so many had failed at. It wasn't even the mystique, though I have to admit that was a surprising and welcome bonus. Everyone gives you that scintilla of extra space when you play with the dead. No, the true reason was that there was a young man, really more a boy, only two years older than me, who declared once that only the bravest mages took to the discipline. And, well, he was very handsome, and I always look to impress the most handsome man in the room.

"So now you know the truth," he added, giving a flourishing bow as best he could from a kneeling position. "All the greatness imbued in my conception, all of the glory achieved by my life, all the dashing heroics and accomplishments - all hollow pandering to the ideal. I've done nothing of note, nothing worth doing, without daring another to be impressed. I'm not a man at all. I'm a mirror, a thing of reflections and angles that dares to call itself Archon. I was Archon for _you_. And now you've flitted off beyond the Veil and left me to be nothing at all. My father massacred, Alexius executed at your hand, Felix burned so far away that I never even felt the heat from the flames. No one left to aspire to, and an empty reflection is quite meaningless."

Another tear came, and he let this one fall. "You were the last, you know. And the best. I know you'd like to hear that. But without you to be impressed, how will I ever be impressive again?" he asked. "These people all want something from me. They want me to be you. I'm not, nor can I ever be. You were the only one, Maxwell Trevelyan. The only one. I wish…"

He wished too many things, and he shook his head and danced away from them all. " _Amatus_. The _soporati_ all use the word for dalliances, a general catch-all for a bed warmer that stays for more than a night. But in the highest reaches of the Imperium, it still holds its old sense, mostly because it almost never comes up in breeding circles. A partner for life. A part of the soulfound inside of another, lurking behind the eyes and in the hands and across the lips. It means a love that never dies. It means magic."

Dorian leaned down, close enough that his lips brushed against Maxwell's ear. "So tell me, _amatus_. Did you mean it?"

There was no answer, as there would never be, and Dorian kissed a pallid cheek once, softly, and put his pain far, far away.

The barrier dropped, but no one moved towards him. He stood, brushing off his pants. "Thank you," he said to the bright eyes and solemn faces of his audience. "What's next?"

Cullen opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say a word, Razikale stood in her attention-drawing way, forestalling any conversation. Dorian followed her gaze across the field to the treeline and gaped. Solas fled through its edges, moving more quickly than Dorian had ever seen him, bounding like a wolf between the shadows. Cole and Fenris followed behind, less graceful and less sure, and well behind them were the rising horns of a Qunari phalanx, kitted for war and indomitable victory.

Varric swore behind him. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he said. "Please tell me they're here to help us. Tiny?"

Iron Bull said nothing, and Dorian spared him a glance. His face was ashen for all its implacable warrior's calm, and Dorian once more recalled all of those times he'd stood in front of his father's desk, hating him, running from him, yet knowing that he sought his approval more than anything in the world. "Home sweet home should have the decency to stay well-away from us, shouldn't it?" he murmured, and Bull's mouth lifted fractionally. Enough.

"Yeah. They're not here to help us," said Bull. "I'm not Ben-Hassrath anymore, but I'm also not an idiot. That's an invasion force. Sure picked a good time for it."

"An astonishingly good time," said Vivienne archly. "Almost as though it had been planned."

"Not saying I wouldn't, at least some times in my life, but you think I'd be here if I had?" asked Bull. "This is going to get real messy, real fast."

Dorian nodded. "Yes. It will. But first," he said. He watched the fleeing figures, waiting like a cat above a mouse. His eyes glittered as the three men stepped, closer, and he felt them cross the border into his land in the depths of his soul. The instant their feet touched grass he _reached_ , ruthlessly draining the power Razikale had gifted him and pinning them all in place.

Well, two of them. Cole danced lightly around the circle of power, confused until he looked up and saw the Inquisition arrayed on the hill like vengeful gods. A look of relief crossed the spirit's face, obvious even from this distance, but his expression froze when he lit on Dorian. In an instant he was sprinting again, this time towards them, pell-mell and gangly, and Sera barely had time to nock an arrow before Cole shoved through them all, falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs over Maxwell's body.

"It hurts," said Cole wonderingly, achingly. "It hurts, it hurts, a rock in the throat, burning behind the eyes. He's not safe. He was supposed to be safe."

Varric moved towards the boy with soothing motions, but Cole shook him away and drew his knees to his body, rocking into himself. "It isn't supposed to _hurt_ ," he said. His voice was muffled and full of pain. He looked up at the sky, once, before burying his head against his legs once more.

Dorian turned away from the exposure of his soul, and Razikale lifted off the ground at his gesture. The Qunari force halted at her roar, looking up into the sky with as much surprise as a Qunari warrior ever showed. The most massive of the group barked out an order, and the troops fell back in a new pattern. One Dorian understood no more than the last.

"Defensive position," said Cullen, and Dorian silently thanked him. "They're not retreating, but they're not attacking either. Strange. Hard to believe they'd be afraid of a dragon."

Bull snorted. "Impossible. Probably just waiting for an Arishok to challenge it."

"It's no use speculating," said Cassandra. "We must act, while they're distracted. But the threats are numerous. We must be efficient."

There was a vague moment, almost imperceptible, where the group fell into a familiar silence. A breath, taken together, followed by waiting.

Maxwell didn't speak, and Cullen cleared his throat. "Dorian, Sera and Bull, get to Solas. Help him, and get him to help us. Cassandra, keep an eye on the Qunari and that damned dragon. Josephine and I will arrange the troops here into some kind of fighting order in case it comes to that," he said. He eyed Leliana, seemed to weigh a decision, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Leliana, we'll need to you to explain that the war is off. I trust you can put this sedition to rights. And Varric, stay with Cole. Keep people away from the body."

Dorian shot a look at his traveling companions as Cullen spoke, warning them to keep silent about Solas's treachery, and to his vague surprise they did so. Good. He couldn't afford Cullen being all militarily proper with prisoners, which is what they would become if the Commander ever found out. Fortunately his ire seemed focused on another target at the moment.

"I do beg your pardon, my dear," began Vivienne.

Cullen growled. "You will stay here, under guard, and do nothing at all. I don't trust you in the least."

Vivienne affected a look of shock that wasn't entirely feigned. "While the Qunari runs about, treasonous? Besides, you can't afford to spare a guard with so very many battles to wage."

No one dignified that with a response, but Cassandra turned to Cullen and said quietly, "She can stay with me. I can manage her."

The blonde man relaxed, very slightly. "I'm certain you can," he said. "You have no equal."

He bowed, a faint tinge of red on his cheeks, and Cassandra's mouth softened into less severe lines. Varric coughed meaningfully, and it was a measure of the thickening love that Cassandra didn't even spare him a dirty glance.

Dorian walked away, towards the still-struggling elves. They hadn't manged to move an inch, much to his satisfaction, and Solas's look of panicked irritation warmed him as well.

He smiled, soft and sure. He was going to enjoy this.


	25. Spirit Mark

"Welcome back to the Imperium," said Dorian grandly, flinging his arms open in the manner of a dinner host greeting his most valuable guests. And that was true, because in the Imperium, a man's greatest enemies were always the guests he cherished most highly.

Solas's eyes snapped up, violet and feral, and Dorian felt the Fade wrap around him like a cloak that was too tight. He smiled, lazily, and sliced through the pressure with a flicker of earthen magic.

"I'm glad to see you. You left in such a hurry, we had no chance to make our farewells," he continued.

Sera smacked him with her bow, hard enough that his teeth rattled. "Oi. Sky tear, dragon, Qunari, bunch of soldiers ready to stomp us. Ring a bell? Stop the noble crap and get him out of whatever this is," she said. She gestured at the ground, where Fenris and Solas were both still struggling to move. "He's shit at most things but this green glowiness is right up his street."

Solas growled, deep in his throat, and she snorted. "Andraste's ass. I was kidding, you tit. About the being shit thing, not about you helping."

Bull crossed his arms. "I think he's helped plenty already. Full of help, this guy."

"Ugh. There's some other stuff going on here, isn't there?" asked Sera. "Some big boots stupid shit. You people are worse than Orlais."

"Magister," said Fenris, ignoring her. He shook his head. "Dorian. Release us. The Qunari invasion force is massing. Their vanguard is here to destroy whatever remains of the armies, and then they'll destroy Tevinter. Our people. We need to rally them to a common cause."

"If only we had a council of powerful mages to defend our land," said Dorian. "That would certainly be of use right now."

Fenris nodded wearily. "Yes. But we do not. Should we speak of all of the other things we do not have? One of them is time," he said. "For our shared future. Please. The Inquisitor can -"

"Maxwell is dead," said Dorian, and it cost him his heart to say it so smoothly.

Fenris stopped, newly wary, and Dorian spared him only a glance before looking back to Solas. Solas, who was angry and wild, but not surprised. Not sorry. Not anything, anymore.

"He's dead because of you," said Dorian. The rage boiled deep inside of him, bloody and Tevene, and he knew exactly how he would be Archon. "The armies are here, because of you. The Qunari are here, because of you. The demons are coming, because of you. The world is ending, because of you!"

He tightened his grip on his magic and sent a new wave of a pain. Fenris howled, but Solas flung out his hand in a wide circle, slapping it away with the Fade.

"Not ending," said Solas. "Being born."

"For whom, exactly?"

"My people."

Sera snorted and nocked an arrow. "I'm not one of 'your people'. I don't want any of this shit."

Solas shrugged. "No. You are not."

Dorian should have been surprised at the fire that rose to Solas's hands, tinged with lightning and leading ice. He should have been shocked that pacifist, bookish Solas would strike without warning like a hunter at a halla. But the new part of him that lurked, waiting, had no capacity for surprise, and the earth rose in a wave to block the killing blow.

Sera flew back, stunned but alive, as the earth continued to pulse beneath her. Bull shouted, a battle cry that attracted the attention of the Qunari phalanx. Their heads swiveled into the sound, scenting, and Bull froze under their considering stare. Cullen carried out something martial at the top of the hill, some grand negotiation, but the movements broke apart into screams when they saw the earth roiling, and Dorian was powerless to stop it.

The Fade pressed into the sky above them, groaning louder, and the world was still a sickly green.

"It's unraveling," said Solas, unperturbed. "Your alliances. Your friends. How easy it is to turn them against one another. To sow fear. You've built such a fragile world, you mortals. The Inquisition was the strongest united front since the time of Arlathan, and still it falls so easily. In a world without gods, you cannot help but fall. I failed to understand your lack, all those years ago. A mistake I will rectify, this time."

Another crackle of power, another clash between them, and Solas laughed. It was the low laugh of a predator, and Dorian wondered how long they'd been sleeping with the wolf at the door. "Leliana's dreams of the Maker, so quickly formed. She wants her god, more than she wants you. Your Black Divine, desiring the power of having His voice, and I gave it. The Qunari, so desperate to see their gods again. I found their dreams as well. Your father…"

Dorian lashed out again, and Solas broke off. Bull hadn't moved, but he said in a loud voice, "The Qunari don't have gods. We have the Qun."

"And what has the outcome been of this new method? Has your world provided the clarity you desired?" asked Solas. When Bull fell silent, he nodded. "The Kossith were more necessary than your ancestors realized, my friend. The Arishoks came here on their promise, the dreams of the wise women persuading them, and it was simple for me to bestow."

"You manipulated their dreams?" asked Fenris. "Took on different forms within them? I thought only demons could do such things."

His voice was easy and interested, but Dorian felt his sharpened consideration. A flame of suspicion. The spark he needed. Fenris was Tevinter, and that made him his. Dorian slid rage into the elf's dangerous silence, feeding the fire, and prayed Solas wouldn't notice.

He needed have worried. The floor was taken, the master giving instruction, and Solas's arrogance flowed around him like a cape. "I am Fen'Harel. I am the Fade. I created a world, long ago. A shape is nothing for me."

The fire leapt and caught as Fenris breathed.

Dorian needed a distraction. He thought to Razikale, commanding her aid, but she didn't answer from her lazy patterns in the sky. So he asked a question, instead, an opening that Solas would be smart enough, and foolish enough, to take. "And Maxwell's dreams? Did you manipulate them?"

Solas turned away from Fenris and smiled. The wolf circled and jumped. "His dreams were only ever of you. There's no need to trick such foolish prey. They sacrifice themselves."

He'd been prepared for it, had seen the strike coming, but some defenses could never be built, and Dorian's rage crumbled into grief. At the same instant Solas's power found him again, another tightening noose around his throat, and Dorian clawed at it with a shaking mind.

"You cannot stand against me, Dorian," said Solas. His voice was almost kind. "You have great mastery over your magic, and it does you credit. Many of your kind have burned up before they learned half so much. It's impressive, truly, but I've been alive for centuries. I fought against your greatest magisters, in the war long ago. The earth cannot touch me, not with my own magic pouring down to meet me. And I will not tire. You will. Let us end this."

Dorian shook his head, fighting away the blackness, wishing for Maxwell's steady presence to bolster him once more. He closed his eyes and willed the memories to return.

"You can live," said Solas. "You would be valued. My people need your strength, for all you are human. I would reward you for what you've done. There will be other men, those who desire you. I watched your dreams as well. They could be satisfied by another."

"I love him," said Dorian, choked and broken. "There are no others."

Solas shook his head, but before he could reply Fenris spoke. "Hawke."

Dorian's eyes flew open, and Fenris was glowing. Every line spilled Fade fire, branding his vision with painful light.

Solas turned impatiently. "Yes, Hawke will arrive soon. The Fade is not yet open."

Fenris nodded. "Hawke. In my dreams," he said. He looked up at Dorian, and the grief in his eyes was almost enough to balance the madness of his fury. Like falling into the nightmare of the Fade, where there was nothing but desolate loss and the end of all hope.

It was a relief when Fenris turned back to Solas. "He really is dead."

The two elves stared at each other, Solas in dawning horror, Fenris with deadly temper. Before Solas could say another word or spin another lie, Dorian released his circle of power, freeing them both to move.

And Fenris reached into Solas's chest and crushed his heart.

* * *

Two sounds rose above the chaos, and they silenced everything. The soldiers stopped shouting, the earth settled into place, and even the torn sky stopped to watch. Dorian touched his throat, breathed the blessedly cool air and tried to make sense of it all.

Razikale's roar, triumphant and proud, echoed across the battlefield. The Qunari answered it, shouting in one voice, and Dorian saw Bull sink to his knees. He had no sense of his feelings - Bull was not Tevinter - but it was oddly terrifying to watch so much strength collapse in on itself. When the dragon wheeled around and made for them, Bull flinched back, made himself small, and Dorian stepped forward, ready to help.

But the second noise stopped him, as Cole screamed in agony over the hills. Another creature without fear, who weakness never seemed to touch, but the cries from his throat were devastating anguish, the voice for everything Dorian still felt buried under the weight of his duty. Like an endless sea of acid dragging across the soul, and Dorian considered what it would be like to have no human filter against that pain. To have no way to push it down inside himself until the lie that it wasn't there became almost truth.

Compassion had an amulet that kept him safe from malignant manipulation. Dorian wondered if it worked against himself.

When the slight figure appeared above them, staring down at the scene, there were knives in his hands. Cole held them like extensions of himself, and he swept his hat off with a blade that danced inches from his ear. The spirit had never cut an ally in battle. But his eyes now were hooded, unreadable, and Dorian considered that perhaps they were no longer allies.

Like rabbits stunned into motionless terror by the gaze of a hawk, no one moved. Maxwell would have turned them all into compatriots again as easily as breathing, with whatever magic he'd held. But he was gone, so eventually Dorian stepped forward, and lifted his arms, and said, "Cole."

That was enough to shatter things. Cole broke into a run towards him, jerky and frantic, and Sera lifted her bow.

"No," said Dorian, with as much command as he could summon, and to his mild surprise she obeyed.

And then Cole was close enough to see clearly, and the streaming tears on his face broke what little heart Dorian had left. Rivers of aching, wells of sorrows, seas of misery. Dorian knew he would gladly accept death to ease them. After all, Cole had saved his life just long enough to give Dorian joy. It would be a worthy sacrifice to save him now.

Metal flashed in Cole's palms as he threw his daggers, but they traveled behind him and vanished into the tall grass, He closed the rest of the gap at speed, and Dorian grunted as the boy's head crashed into his chest. When he settled his arms around Cole's shaking shoulders, he thought to himself that dying might have been easier than this.

"I don't know where to put it," said Cole, barely intelligible. "It has nowhere to go. I want to forget!"

The last words rose into a new wail, and when Dorian closed his eyes he saw, wildly, a star flickering and wavering in the darkness, alone. "We can't always forget," he said softly. "Sometimes we never forget."

"Never is evil. Never is starving in the dark, tied up and dying. But I don't die. Dorian, I don't know how to die. It can't be never."

Dorian squeezed tighter. "We'll help you. I'll help you. I swear it, Cole. These things won't be your burden alone. If you're angry, I'll take your rage."

"I'm not angry," said Cole. "How can I be angry? There's no room for it." He leaned back and swiped at his face, staring up at him with watery, cornflower eyes. They were tinged with the madness of Gereon Alexius, watching his son die. "You can be angry, if that will help you."

"No," said Dorian. "I'm not angry either. Not anymore."

"I wanted to help him. He was my friend."

Cole twisted to stare at Solas's body, already stiffening on the grass. Fenris sat next to him, staring at the bloody mess in his hand, in the attitude of a person who would never move again.

"I wanted to help, " said Cole, "but I did it wrong again. I didn't learn. I let things out badly. I hurt you. You're my friend, and you're afraid of me."

"Yes," said Dorian, because it was true, and Cole deserved nothing less.

Cole nodded. The understanding was almost worse than the madness. "You have to remove my amulet."

"No."

"Yes. I'll be a demon, and you'll kill me, and it won't be never anymore."

"There's been too much death today. We need you, Cole."

"I'll ask Vivienne to do it," said Cole. "I'll ask her, and she'll hurt me. She wants to hurt me. That would be okay. But I would rather it was you."

Cole started to pull away, tried to vanish, but Dorian focused his will and drew the earth once more to hold him in place.

As though he'd been shocked, Cole froze, then frowned. "That shouldn't see me." The sky above them groaned and sputtered, and Cole nodded as though it had spoken words. Perhaps it had. "Yes," he said quietly. "That would be better."

He stepped back, dragging his feet like man through mud, and Dorian wasn't enough to stop him. Cole smiled a little hesitantly and asked,"Dorian, what am I?"

Before he could come up with an answer, Sera muttered, "You're a right creepy bastard, that's what you are."

Dorian glared at her, but Cole only waited. Eventually Dorian said, "You're a creature of the Fade. You're a spirit given human form. You're compassion. And you're Cole."

"Yes. When I came through, I didn't fit, but I needed to fit. The boy needed me to fit. He pulled me, twisted me, gave me a shape that meant belonging. Cole. Water in a jug is not the same water as it was in the stream. It will always be in the stream, unless it changes enough to move."

Cole looked up. "They won't twist. They've shattered the jug so they can stay the same, but what they are is death. Solas knew the secrets to moving the world. He heard me, tried to help me. My home and my here, two hands touching." He raised his own hands and pressed them together in a mockery of prayer. "Without him, the stream will be too much. I can't have home now. They have to stay away. I can still help."

"Did you know that I almost never know what you're talking about?" asked Dorian.

"I know. Only one person did," said Cole. He shook himself, like a tree in high winds ridding itself of leaves, then knelt to the ground. His delicate, deadly hands traced the lines of Solas's face, softer in death. "I'm breaking. It has to be now."

"What has to be now?"

"Be sharp," said Cole. He turned his face upward, a small line in the middle of his forehead. "And be kind."

Before Dorian could ask another question, Cole vanished. But this time he didn't become a hole in reality that Dorian's mind helpfully filled with nothing at all. Instead he melted like colored glass under heat, bleeding into a mosaic that rivaled any in the atrium of Skyhold. The story of Cole swirled in the air, from the beginning to the end, and Dorian would have sworn he saw the whole of the Inquisition inside its patterns.

 _The Fade and the Imperium combined,_ whispered Cole's voice, and Dorian felt the boy's essence wind into his palm as the rest of him stretched towards the tear in the sky like a kite string.

The earth beneath him rumbled as the power flowed once more, waiting to be shaped, and Dorian suddenly saw the plan. Be sharp. Him as the needle, and Cole as the thread, and the sky above ready to be mended. A lock on the Veil, one of Elvhen and Imperial magic that could only be breached by the two together. And after today, Dorian was quite sure, the Elvhen would never be willing to work with him again.

 _You know I've never so much as sewed on a button,_ he thought to the spirit in his hand, but there was no answer. He sighed, thinking back to Shayla's careful movements over his shirts, and sent his will spiraling upward as tightly as he could. He twisted a little of his own Fade magic into it, complicating the lock further, and tried to herd the power to a single point.

It was like riding a dragon - so large, so terrifying, so absolutely insane that the mind refused to comprehend that it was happening. Instead he thought of creating magelight, and small fires, and the ease of simple spells, and vowed that he would never, ever wish for more power again.

He felt Razikale drifting around the edges of the thread, catching the magic that escaped his control, and he wondered what Maxwell would think of the picture they made. Probably something conceited, like the fact that it took a Fade spirit, a necromancer using blood magic, and an invulnerable dragon to replicate what he could do with a single wave of his hand.

And he would have been right.

* * *

Afterward Dorian understood how the Inquisitor had always been so casual about saving the world. It seemed to take no time at all to heal the sky, though the rumbling in his belly and the sun's new position told him it had been hours. When he finally blinked out of his trance, Fenris, Bull, Cullen and Sera had taken up guarding positions around him, though from the cautious distance the soldiers and Qunari were keeping, they hardly needed to worry about his safety.

The denizens of the Fade were a different story, and Cole's strength had flickered wildly as they'd thrown themselves against the strengthening barrier. But Compassion was edged with blades, and he'd fought back with the memory of steel as he wove. The strikes were stormless lightning, and their thunder deafening until the last seam was closed.

When Dorian swayed, Fenris gave up his guard position and reached out to steady him. That terrible, visceral rage was gone from his eyes, and they looked like dead pools in his face, but there was an acceptance in his grip that Dorian hoped was a good omen for his continued survival. The fact that Sera was still there at all was even more hopeful.

Cullen eyed him warily without turning around. "Are you finished?"

"I don't know. I'm still not entirely sure what I was doing."

"That's just what we want to hear, thanks," said Sera. "Magic freak."

"Your compliments remain charming as always," said Dorian, his voice giving out on the last word. He cleared his throat and tried to focus. "Why isn't anyone attacking me? I assume I'm ruining someone's day."

"Because the only thing worse than magic freaks is demons," she said. "We can kill you now, maybe."

Bull gave a more coherent answer. "It seemed like it was working, and no one wanted to interrupt. The Chantry forces are trying to pray their Maker in here to take care of you, since you're either the holiest man in Thedas or the most demonic. Inquisition forces are too nervous to get close, since whatever you did took away the Inquisitor's mark in the middle of this whole shit show. Vints think this is just a usual night out in the country, probably about ready to slice their own hands open to join in. And the Qunari, well… an Arishok finally showed up."

Dorian's head snapped up, and he studied the careful neutrality on Bull's face. "You should have left."

"What the fuck good is that going to do?" asked Bull wearily. "They know where I am. If I'm gonna fight, better to fight them here. At least the rest of you might soften them up a little."

"I'll help," said Dorian. He raised his hand and found the Fade inside of himself, strong and vital. It was still harder to reach than it had been, harder to take that softer path, but the pool was deep and flowing once more. A jet of fire shot from his finger, and he frowned. It felt different now. Metallic, with flashes of steel. Compassion's weapons lived inside of that pool. Maybe they always would.

The fire died as he swayed again, and Bull snorted. "Yeah, if I need someone to take a nap on them, I'll be sure to shove you out to the front lines."

Dorian tried to roll his eyes, but he couldn't summon up the energy. "Did you say Maxwell's mark disappeared?"

Just saying the name ripped a new hole inside of him, and he wondered if he needed to stay together anymore, or if the world was finally done using his grief.

"In the middle of your… spell," said Cullen. "It faded away. Or melted away. Leliana was as alarmed as I've ever seen her. She wanted you protected after that. It's why I came down."

"Solas was the Maker," said Dorian, then winced at his choice of words.

He looked at Fenris, who nodded minutely in understanding. Solas's history of the world would stop with them. There was a difference between needed honesty and hopeless chaos. Dorian hated the Chantry, but they were better than nothing at all.

"The Maker she heard," he amended. "In her dreams. Solas was manipulating her. Us all."

"Fenris told me," said Cullen, and his cold voice was another reminder of the piety that the Inquisition was founded on. Another reminder of the need for silence. "Solas is lucky he died before Cassandra learned of this blasphemy."

"Indeed. Lucky," echoed Dorian. Fenris's hand squeezed briefly, and Dorian looked back up the hill. He felt suddenly unmoored, like a boat free of its line, and there were so many things he didn't want to do. "I suppose I need to go back up there."

 _Not yet,_ said Razikale.

The world filled with winds as she settled behind them. Sera scrabbled away, and Cullen tensed to fight, but Dorian just stared at her. "Haven't I done enough? Haven't I given enough to you? Or do you want my life now, as well?"

 _Not yet,_ she said again, but her belly rumbled with fiery laughter as she did. _Be steady, little Tevinter. This requires only your eyes. You must bear witness._

"To what?" asked Bull.

Dorian whipped his head around, then immediately regretted it as he nearly lost his balance. "You can hear her, too?"

"Just now." Bull's face was hard, and Dorian remembered a gravestone that whispered madness. "I'm not Qunari anymore. Fuck with someone else's head."

Razikale answered with a roar that flew across the fields, and the Qunari phalanx moved as though they'd been waiting for the signal. Lines of war snaked towards them, led by a fully-kitted warrior Dorian assumed was the Arishok. Confused shouts came from atop the hill once more.

"Stop them," said Dorian to Cullen, and fortunately the man was smart enough to know he meant their own forces. The man raced to his troops, barking orders, and Sera followed him in a display of military interest she'd never shown before. Dorian raised a ridge of earth at the base of the hill, just enough to spook everyone again. The last thing he needed was a bloodbath after he'd bloody saved them all.

Fenris stayed, and Dorian whispered to him, "You won't be able to hear what's going on."

"I stand with my Archon," he answered dryly, and Dorian nearly smiled. "And it would be a relief to die."

The nascent smile faded, and Dorian blew out a breath. "Yes, Magister Fenris. It would be."

* * *

Dorian had never seen an Arishok up close, and beyond a terrifying number of scars and an intriguing amount of muscle, the man was the polar opposite of Bull. Bull's strength was warm and deceptive, buried beneath charisma and debauchery. The cold power radiating from the Arishok hid nothing, shaded nothing, and practically froze the air around them. His horns were massive, curved and deadly, and Dorian made a mental note to stay low to the ground.

"Do they breed them with the stick up their ass or is that part of the training?" he whispered to Bull.

The Qunari didn't answer, and Dorian gave him a worried look before turning to the invaders.

"Welcome to the Imperium! Please wipe your feet at the door and refrain from murdering anyone, at least until we've had a bite to eat."

The Arishok was similarly silent. Dorian sighed. Uphill work all around, it seemed.

 _Your host greets you,_ said Razikale, as archly as a dragon could. _Have you no manners?_

The man answered in Qunari, a string of sibilants that Dorian had no hope of understanding, though Fenris inhaled sharply next to him.

 _A common tongue is protocol._

"Are we really learning our courtesies from a dragon?" asked Dorian, huffing a laugh tinged with exhaustion and madness.

"The Qun has no manners. The Qun is duty, not courtesy," said the Arishok. "We seek ancestors, not gods. We do not desire protocol."

Razikale beat her wings, and a fury-tinged gale rose around them. _The Qun is ended. The Kossith care not what you seek nor what you desire. You summoned. I have answered._

"Who are the Kossith?" asked Dorian into the new silence. He looked at Bull, then Fenris, then the Qunari horde in turn, but there was no answer. Finally, he spun to Razikale and said, less calmly, "Who are the Kossith? You said I'm the supplicant. Answer me. I command it."

The sound of metal unsheathing came from behind him, and the gravelly voice of the Arishok said, "No Tevinter commands us."

 _This Tevinter commands all he sees_ , said Razikale. Her mouth moved like a smile that wasn't. _If he so chooses. Who are the Kossith? I am. As are you, little Tevinter._

Angry mutterings churned around them, but Dorian only stared upward.

 _In a distant age, the Kossith conquered the northern world. We flew over its lands with impunity, and there was no place our eyes touched that was not ours. When the war ended, we mated with the two-legged people we ruled, as was right and just, and they began to take our form over the centuries. They raised priests in our name, we raised them even more highly, and for a time there was perfection._

 _But perfection was not enough for these ones,_ said Razikale, a note of disdain creeping into her voice. _They coveted our magic but were too frightened to understand it. They desired our power but were too cowardly to take it. They sought a new path. One of order and laws, where we had given them nothing but freedom. The Qunari, they called themselves, these spoiled children, and we left them to their folly with glad hearts._

The dragon sounded anything but glad, putting Dorian more in mind of a child who hadn't gotten every sweet in the shop, but this seemed like an impolitic time to point that out. "So you came south," he said instead. "You found Tevinter."

 _Yes. A new race, one with greater understanding. The wingless race in the north had needed guidance. Patient shaping. But we had no need to conquer you. Your race took our magic without asking and worshiped without hesitation,_ said Razikale. She paused, then added, _You were dragons under the skin even before we arrived. Those oldest spirits were worthy of our name._

The Qunari phalanx rumbled again, and Dorian recalculated the odds that he would survive this conversation. Definitely low. Might as well make them worse.

"I'd believe it. Corypheus certainly had quite a temper," he said. "But Solas said we betrayed you. Rejected your magic, trapped you in the earth. Surely that's lessened your regard for my humble race."

Razikale's eyes gleamed. _Perhaps. But surely you are not so credulous as to believe a trickster. Fen'Harel, self-styled ruler of the Elvhen, laid his plots more carefully than that. Even as his empire fell to our power, he devised them. He knew he could not stand against us and win, but eternity is ever-flowing and not so long as all that. He knew there would be a time where things were become anew._

 _The betrayal was always his. He whispered to your race, became your Maker, and turned you away from the weapons that could defeat him. He supplanted our magic with his own, chained our blood with his Fade, and his conquerers became his fiercest protectors. For while the Fade sustained his spirit, the Kossith could not destroy him as we needed. Only his own magic could destroy him, and he was quite good at convincing his enemies to fight on his behalf._

The dragon inclined her head towards the sky. _Had he opened the Fade, lost his protections, I would have been able to move against him. Still, he might have survived. Fen'Harel saved his strength quite carefully. The outcome was unclear. But he forgot to guard against his friends._

Dorian looked at Fenris, his face blank and waiting. "I'm not sure Solas ever had friends."

There was no response in the elf's eyes.

"So what now? This has been a fascinating history lesson, but if you're planning to exact payment for old grievances, I'd prefer a fast death, thanks all the same."

 _Payment was exacted. You destroyed the last of our ancient enemies. You are full of the magic that few but the dragons know. You are Kossith. We do not kill our own,_ said Razikale. _No. The northern race has called for me again, has turned against their adopted Qun, and we will begin again. I will raise what brothers and sisters I can, and we will return to their education._

 _This is your charge to witness. The dragons fly north, and while you live, little Tevinter, we will not stand against you. Only one matter remains to be settled before I go._

Before Dorian could reply, the Arishok drew his weapons and settled into a warrior's stance. "We did not come to be ruled. We are the Qunari, and you will serve us."

Bull muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Idiot," as Razikale turned in a lazy quarter-circle.

 _You are what I tell you to be,_ she said. _And you are children._

The Arishok bellowed and charged, weapons flashing in the afternoon light, and Razikale stood motionless in the face of his approach. The Qunari warrior leapt smoothly, drawing his axe across her throat with a savage roar. To Dorian's astonishment it actually cut into the hide, an angry line that welled with blood.

A drop fell, running over the Arishok's horns where he stood, straight-backed and defiant.

 _That will do,_ said Razikale. She rose into the air and made a graceful circle around the huddled Qunari, dripping more blood and whispering words just beyond Dorian's hearing. When she was done, she looked at him and winked, by far the most disconcerting thing she'd done yet. _Now you see it._

A howling sound came from the center of her circle, with a light too bright for the world, and Dorian threw his hands in front of his eyes. His blood roiled and burned as the world screamed at the intrusion that seemed to last forever. But after only a few breaths the chaos vanished as quickly as it had come, and Dorian blinked open his eyes to see that field empty of Qunari. A field that was now a hundred yards away from where they stood, on top of a hill, in a circle around the body of the man he loved.

Razikale was settled beside him, as smug as a dragon could be, and Dorian wondered how persuasive Solas had been, exactly, to convince his Tevinter ancestors that Fade magic was the more powerful source.

Bull shook his head, horns glinting in the sun, and glared around him warily. "Where in the fuck did they go?"

 _Home._

"Par Vollen?"

Razikale tossed her head in an echo of Bull's gesture. _A truer home than that._

"Well, shit then," said Bull. He hefted his weapon casually and added, "So why am I still here?"

 _Are you Qunari?_

Bull laughed, an incongruous sound in the fading day. "Hell no."

 _As you say._ Razikale paused. _And you are more dragon than the rest. You will serve the new Kossith well from here._

Dorian couldn't bring himself to look away from Maxwell, who was so very small and so very still. Razikale was nothing more than another ancient fool, some being who would never understand that the endless expanse of eternity was a bitter wasteland without Maxwell Trevelyan. He didn't want these people to know how little anything mattered to him, now.

So he stared at the thing he'd been trying so desperately to forget and said in a low tone, "I'm not one of you. I'm not one of anything. I'm barely Tevinter. But I am Archon. Go away. Leave my lands, and my people, to our own folly. To our own ruin. Follow after your new race and leave us alone."

Instead of anger, he sensed amusement. _Soon. But there is a matter yet to be settled between, little Tevinter. And the world will be our witness._


End file.
